Nor Angel, Nor Ghost
by Taedium Vitae
Summary: The Phantom of the Opera revise by my care mixing a little of the movie, the book and my imagination. Romance, mysteries and music awaited Erik and Christine in this story of love and hope. A beast can be loved by an angel? Will Love erase all the pain?
1. Chapter 1 : The Opera Populaire

Disclaimer:_ The Phantom of the Opera_ and its characters are by no means my property. They respectively belong to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Susan Kay

Summary:This is the story of the Phantom of the Opera rewritten by my care mixing some of the film, book and my imagination. Romance, jealousy, betrayal, cape and sword are waiting for you. Will Erik finally succeed to conquer his bride? Will Raoul let himself being supplanted by a ghost? Will Christine found the courage to follow the impulses of her soul? When the music, mystery, passion compete for the hearts of the tortured lovers, will Love succeed to overcome the obstacles and bring out the truth to light? An Angel could love a beast?

Source: _The Phantom of __the Opera_, Gaston Leroux; _ALW's The Phantom of the Opera_, Andrew Lloyd Webber; _Phantom_, Susan Kay

Cast: Gérard Butler__Erik_; Emmy Rossum__Christine Daaé_; Patrick Wilson__Raoul de Chagny_;Miranda Richardson__Mme. Giry_...

Author's note: This fiction is the English translation of my French story "Ni Ange, Ni Fantôme". For other authors, if sometimes you find similarity with other work, I apologize as it is not made on purpose. I write and read for some years and sometimes it happens that I have the same idea than other writers. So, sorry again, don't take it wrongly! Otherwise, you can still remember that only the best are imitated! Don't hesitate to leave a review. It will be most appreciated! Your obedient servant, Taedium Vitae...

* * *

~ Tædium Vitæ ~

**Nor Angel, Nor Ghost**

* * *

« _Il ne m'a manqué que d'être aimé pour être bon ! »_

_Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_, Gaston Leroux

**~ Chapter 1 ~**  
**– The Opera Populaire –**

=====================  
**_Paris, 1879_**  
=====================

The _Palais Garnier_, realm of music, of dream, of illusion and excess, witness of innumerable tragedies unfolding as much on stage as in the wings, guardian of thousand secrets and mysteries, cradle of romantic and dramatic loves often forbidden, arose majestically in all its opulence amidst the _Grands Boulevards_ of Paris, the City of Lights. The _Opera Populaire_ as the Parisians liked to call it was the finial of architecture and modernity. Under its classical and sumptuous mask of marble, gilt, and sculpture hid kilometers of girders able to bear the furnace of a fire, destiny too often reserved to the theater that swarmed of gas pipe supplying the limelight**.** Some said that it was a city in the city with its thousands of doors, its hundreds of rooms, attics, tiny rooms, cupboards, its various rich foyers, its imposing and unforgettable _grand escalier_, its seventeen stories of which five laid under earth and its gloomy artificial lake. This Palace of marble and gold was for many an architectural masterpiece known in the entire world. Such a place of magic and of splendor comprised inevitably its share of rumors, anecdotes, stories and legends.

The Phantom was the most ancient of these myths. The Opera was his domain, from the top of the Lyre brandished by Apollo to the dreary depths of the underground lake. Whoever dared enter in the labyrinth of his realm took the risk of never resurface. Everybody knew it, from the littlest rat to the highest director, without forgetting the machinists, lighting engineers, seamstresses and others staffs that worked in this tremendous ant hill. All of them knew him, but no one agreed about his appearance. Some people talked of a shadow without face dressed in black, others of a masked gentleman in evening suit and a machinist who had crossed him fortuitously at the corner of a corridor described a skeletal specter with a skull head and with a skin as yellow as an old parchment. Nobody knew where he came from, or who he was. He was simply part of the edifice since the first day of its inauguration. Some rare old ushers even told that he already haunted the monument during its construction.

However, there was a fact on which everyone was consistent. His directives, whatever they were, must be followed to the letter or a misfortune would occur inevitably. Although often severe, irascible and unpleasant, he was also of good advice and relevant judgment concerning the management of the Opera. A persistent rumor circulating among the _corps de ballet_ said that he knew everything about music and no lyrical work had secrets for him. Other claimed even that Mr. Poligny had more than once relied on the orders and infinite knowledge of the Ghost to improve the production, the orchestration and the songs of several compositions.

The Phantom reigned in master over this universe of semblance and dreams. He was for some people a topic of joke used to frighten the ballerinas and for others, it was a taboo word that was evocated like a malediction or the Devil's name which was better let silence. He sharpened the curiosity of young ones and aroused anguish in the old ones, but everyone knew they had to respect and fear the power of the Specter and his magical lasso. In spite of his reputation of infamous tyrant, he could show some kind of temperance and magnanimity. It was considered that no pure, innocent and loyal soul should dread his wrath. Only those who dared to defy him, mock him or venture in his domain of the lake exposed themselves to encounter an unfortunate, sometimes even baneful fate. More than one accident had been imputed to the Phantom and he was suspected of being responsible of at least one death in the Opera. Everybody had heard the story of the carpenter who had had the audacity, in the early days of the theater, to approach the underground lake and had been found dead on the shore on the side of rue Scribe. When the corpse had been discovered, some policemen asserted to have heard the voice of a woman singing laments as if a mourner was standing on the edge of the dark waters. The case had been classified as an accidental drowning, but the employees understood without a doubt that the entry of the realm of Shadows where the Ghost dwelt was fiercely guarded. More than once, the bewitching singing of a woman was heard near these deadly waters. Quickly, everyone knew that a siren inhabited this area, protecting the Specter's domain by drowning the careless ones in the obscure depths of the lake. Therefore, the grating of rue Scribe was sealed and blocked up since that day to avoid that any curious dimwit tried to infiltrate this deadly cave. There was another entrance in the depths of the fifth cellar of the Opera, but it was almost impossible to find, so its existence, after many years, was nothing more than a memory in the minds of the elders.

Over the years, the Phantom became a simple regular of the Opera in the same way than the counts, barons and others _bourgeois_ pacing the edifice during gala nights. Each employee was accustomed to his presence which seemed to them as formidable as familiar. The direction had to put up with this Revenant to whom they had to obey without balking if they didn't want to give representations in a cursed auditorium. On their arrival at the head of the Opera, the managers Misters Poligny and Debienne had not much believed in this Ghost story and had neglected his threats and demands. But after the first opening night during which more incidents occurred than it did in one year and after one month to suffer harsh reprisals every day, the administrators reconsidered their opinion. Since then, they didn't try again to defy the Specter and submitted to the slightest of his demands, thus establishing a relative peace within the Opera. It was preferable to grant a few minor concessions to a Ghost than to risk various catastrophes that would assuredly cause the ruin of the Academy of Music. After all, the permanent reservation of a box and a simple monthly salary seemed a derisory cost to pay to obtain a serene climate inside this edifice already sufficiently chaotic even without a Ghost.

**X X X X**

Still wearing her simple ballerina costume, her ballet shoes, and her long blond hair tied in a neglected ponytail, Meg climbed the wide stairs that would lead her to the vast hallway where the dressing rooms of the singers and of the prima ballerina of the Opera were lined up. When she reached the last step, a cold draft brushed her nape chilling her blood and freezing her breath. With a nimble pirouette, she turned around to see only the half-light of the gallery she had just climbed. With an uneasy pout, she tightened her shawl around her quivering shoulders and resumed her way by accelerating her pace, persuaded to detect a presence near her.

Meg believed in the Phantom of the Opera and knew every rumors and anecdotes that surrounded this peculiar character. On her arrival at the Opera in company of her mother, the ballet mistress, that everyone called soberly Madame Giry, she hadn't believed in this fanciful story of a disembodied Spirit that haunted the monument. However, after many months to roam the nooks and crannies of the building, she had begun to have suspicions. Many times, she had been able to glimpse an enigmatic shadow vanish around the corner of a corridor, mysterious footsteps making creak the catwalk above the stage or the humming of an invisible organ resounding in the cellars of the Opera. Her doubts faded totally the day that she surprised a meeting between her mother and said Phantom. She had heard nothing of their conversation and had barely discerned the shape of the Specter, but when she saw him disappear in the wall like a shadow and her mother's face go pale with fright, Meg understood that she had just confronted the Ghost for the first time. The day after this encounter, Mister Poligny had announced to Meg she was promoted to the title of _coryphée_, and she had wondered if these two events were linked or if it was a rude coincidence.

Making use of trickery and perseverance, she had tried to trick out some information from her mother to know if the Phantom had made use of his magic to recommend her to the direction, but she had refused to answer her. Meg suspected her mother to be acquainted with this creature and even to be his emissary, given that she knew more than anyone about him and many of his secret letters were entrusted to her hands for delivery to the directors. Nonetheless, Madame Giry negated any link with this Revenant whenever her daughter pressed the issue and she admonished her harshly if she became too curious. All that Meg needed to know was that she had nothing to fear of the Phantom or of his misdeeds as long as she remained discreet about his existence and that she showed him respect. If he had permitted to the little dancer to be noticed and promoted, this Specter wasn't maybe as bad as people pretended.

Arrived at the end of the long corridor, she opened a small door on a dark and narrow stairway that climbed about fifteen tall steps that she took with an agile stride. She followed a dusty and dimly lit gallery flanked on either side of small cubbies, cupboards and tiny rooms where various old items and props that nobody used were amassed. Finally, she reached the last door of the corridor which, unlike its neighbors, was painted with a pattern of intertwined roses and ivy to form an artistic decoration. As she raised her hand to knock on the door, Meg heard the murmur of a crystalline feminine voice followed by the rocky tone of a man, which made her eyes widen in amazement. After three short knocks on the door, she entered the dressing room and discovered Christine rising suddenly from a chair placed in front of the large mirror that decorated the back wall.  
- "Excuse-me, Christine! Am I disturbing you?" Meg stammered by inspecting the room to seek the source of the man's voice.  
- "No, come in, please!" invited the little brunette.  
- "But you're alone! I had thought hearing a man with you!"  
- "A man? In my dressing room? Marguerite Giry, some decency! I don't lock myself on the sly with a man in my _boudoir_!" quipped the singer with a huge jubilant smile, her eyes sparkling with happiness to see her dear comrade.  
In truth, Meg was the only and unique friend that Christine possessed in all the Opera and even in all Paris, so that they had become as inseparable and close as two sisters. The reason of this isolation was due to her ambiguous condition within the Opera. The young girl had a somehow peculiar status among the artists, given that she was just as well a dancer than a soprano, which made her integration difficult and problematic. Indeed, among the _corps de ballet_, she was hated, because she was considered like a _prima donna_ with her own dressing room as uncomfortable as it may be, but, she was equally shunned by the cantatrices that treated her like a simple dancer. Except for Meg that ignored these details, Christine was totally alone. The vagaries of life had transformed as the years go by this little Nordic fairy in a solitary woman.

Christine had no family. Her mother had succumbed to a vicious pneumonia when she was still a child and that she lived in a little hamlet in Sweden. Her father, Gustave Daaé, was a simple peasant that possessed, without boasting, an undoubted talent for music. The stroke of his bow was known through all expanses of Scandinavia and he was always requested to make dance the couples in weddings and in feasts. But, the poor fiddler had been for ever scarred by the loss of his spouse and decided to sell his plot of land to get away from his dark memories and to seek fortune in the cities along with his adorable little girl that he cherished more than anything. Unfortunately, he found there only misery. The father and his daughter roamed from town to village, from fair to fair, strumming his Nordic tunes on his violin while the young maiden listened to him with ecstasy and accompanied him with her angelic song.

Despite their poverty and their wandering, Christine had lived the happiest period of her life. They possessed nothing material, but they knew and esteemed the richness of love, of heart and of music. It mattered little to the girl to have varnished shoes and bedizened dresses. She loved only her father and the melody of his fiddle. Their incessant trips had finally led them in France on the Brittany shores where they meandered from harbor to harbor and slept huddled against each other in the hay of the barns. In the village of Perros-Guirec while the father played on his musical instrument one of his melancholic melody on which his daughter danced and sang, they met an old couple of _bourgeois_ who were moved and overwhelmed by this sad litany and the farandole of this little Nordic fairy with the face of an angel. The professor Valérius undertook to cater for the meager needs of these two extraordinary artists. He offered them the shelter of his roof and the food of his table that they accepted with pleasure. At that time, Christine's father was already feeling the dusk of his existence begin and he worried about the future of his little daughter. Constantly, he was consumed and tormented from the inside by the nostalgia of the Scandinavian sky and of those blissful days he had spent with his wife and their daughter when they had been alone in the world. Many happy years passed during which father Daaé never ceased to fiddle, to sing and to tell fairytales and stories of the cold lands to his sweet Christine who was blossoming day after day. Her progresses were unlimited and everyone who saw and heard her promised her a glorious future.

But those instants of peace were cruelly wrecked by the sudden death of the violinist during their journey to visit the capital in company of Professor Valérius. He was buried in a little cemetery in Paris next to the _parc de Vincennes_, near this nature he had always appreciated so much and that had missed him so much. Back in the home of Perros-Guirec, Christine seemed then to have lost her voice, her genius and her soul at the same time as her father. For days she mourned him, for weeks she remained silent and for unending years she immured herself in her loneliness and grief. Then, one morning like all the previous others that had become her existence with the Valérius couple, she decided to enter in Conservatory like her father would have wished even if her heart and her enthusiasm were no more with her. She went to Paris and left the last people she regarded as her family. She still had enough talent to complete her studies without great distinction, contenting to attend the lessons and to merely maintain this gift she possessed without trying to sublime it. During her years of study, the Valérius parents succumbed one after the other to the disease, abandoning the young Christine who seemed, since then, to wither a little more each passing day.

After some mediocre and disillusioned _début_ in various theaters, she was eventually engaged in the _corps de ballet_ at the Opera Garnier where she played just as well the dancer than the occasional singer, but she felt more like a specter that was haunting the premises. She was only the shadow of the joyful girl who was singing and dancing on the melody of her father's violin during her time of innocence.

Standing in her modest dressing room, Christine watched the huge gilt-framed mirror built into the wall. All these events belonged to the past, to another time, to her existence before the apparition of the Voice… before the arrival of the Angel of Music. Since He had chosen her as a disciple to receive the knowledge of His divine Art, her vain and mournful life had been completely shaken. She has return to life. She had the impression that the light was again shining on her, that she wasn't abandoned anymore and that an invisible guardian watched over her fiercely. Her father had kept his promise.  
- Come, Christine! We must hurry, otherwise we will be late and Mother will punish us for our lack of punctuality, advised Meg before to catch her friend's hand to incite her to leave the room.  
- "Why? What's the matter? Where are we going?"  
Christine followed her pal on a few recalcitrant steps while her attention was still riveted to the mirror as if she was afraid to leave it and to not find it any more at her return.  
- "Honestly, you don't have forgotten! It's today that _Messieurs_ Debienne and Poligny remit the management of the Opera to the new directors. La Carlotta intended to give them a little ceremonial speech to congratulate them. _Maman_ wants everybody to be present," clarified the ballerina still dragging Christine in her wake.  
Finally, the young lady admitted defeat and turned her eyes on Meg that she followed obediently through the maze of corridors, doors and staircases of the edifice. After several minutes of wandering, they reached the _foyer de la danse_ where many rats and workmen of the opera were already piling up. Meg spotted quickly her mother in her long and austere black dress where she led Christine. Despite the disapproving stare of Madame Giry, the two girls innocently smiled at her as if they hadn't noticed their lateness. Nevertheless, they saw in a glance that they were hardly the last guests. The conductor, _Monsieur_ Reyer, the singing master, _Monsieur_ Gabriel and even _Madame_ La Carlotta and _Signor_ Piangi were not present yet, not to mention the principal interested _Messieurs les Directeurs_.

As the waiting dragged on indefinitely, the young ballerinas grew impatient and fidgeted with babbling, so very soon a chaotic uproar spread in the foyer. When the managers in company of the missing guests stood out at last on the threshold of the hall, they were greeted by a farandole of dancers playing to chase each other with loud laughs.  
- "Well, I noticed that our artists know what a welcoming show means !" exclaimed one of the newcomers with gray hair and a thin mustache scrutinizing with appraising eye the horde of elegant gams that was fleeing in front of them.  
_Messieurs_ Poligny and Debienne exchanged an annoyed grimace while La Carlotta raise her eyes heavenwards with a disdain and irritated expression. The entire _corps de ballet_ was soon gathered around the four men and under the juvenile laughter of the mischievous little band whose curiosity had been aroused by the entrance of these new _bourgeois_, the two former directors desperately sought the help of the Mistress of ballet they saw on the other side of the room in company of her daughter.  
- "_Madame_ Giry, please ?" called Monsieur Poligny over the din of screams and yelps.  
Straight away, _Madame_ brandished her long silver-headed cane that she struck with a hard and authoritarian whack on the ground, silencing instantly the chatter and stopping the general upheaval. The young girls scattered to line up quietly in front of the massive mirror that adorned one of the wall of the foyer of the ballet under the watchful eyes of their instructress.  
- "Thank you, Madam," approved _Monsieur_ Debienne before clearing his throat. "As you all know, the time has come for _Monsieur_ Poligny and myself to put an end to our collaboration within the Opera Garnier," he announced with a look as saddened as relieved. "Be sure that those few years spent with artists as talented and hard-working as competent have been of the most enriching, exciting, wonderful and rewarding. In joy or in adversity, we are proud to say that we have always worked hand in hand like the big family we are. We hope the limelight will never cease to shine for you and the fabulous Opera Garnier!"  
At this eulogy, a tumult of applause and whistling rose up from the audience that _Monsieur_ Poligny took several minutes to silence before to continue the speech his partner had begun.  
- "We will never thank you enough for all the given efforts and the triumphs that you have offered us," he praised, turning to the two strangers. "The adventure is maybe finished for us today, but another chapter begins for you. It's with joy and confidence that we leave you in the competent hands of the two new owners of the _Opera Populaire_, _Monsieur_ Moncharmin André and _Monsieur_ Richard Firmin."

At the call of their name, the two men briefly bowed their head in sign of thanks and salutation to which the ballerinas responded with shy curtsies and small giggles. Quickly, all the girls' gazes turned to both men they detailed meticulously. _Monsieur_ Firmin was tall, with a severe and almost haughty aspect, a thick mass of pepper-and-salt hair surmounted his broad forehead and a large mustache with gray tips adorned his narrow mouth. _Monsieur_ Moncharmin seemed in comparison the complete opposite of his colleague. Although he was of an honorable size, he seemed smaller and frailer than the imposing stature of his accomplice. He had opulent and shining silvery hair, a face with plain and jovial features enhanced by a thin mustache and goatee on his chin.  
- "This is a great privilege for us to resume the management of the eminent and venerable _Opera Populaire_. And we are deeply honored to introduce our new patron," _Monsieur _Firmin began.  
- "The _Vicomte de Chagny_," _Monsieur_ Moncharmin finished.  
On the threshold of the door loomed suddenly a young man with a bright smile and an attractive and almost youthful face that long bronze hair tried to make him look older. At this apparition, a rumor of admiration spread and blazed up in the _corps de ballet_ as a wildfire. He came in a casual and confident manner toward the four men which he shook hands with alternately in warm greetings.  
- "My Parents and I are proud to support all the Arts, and especially the well renowned _Opera Garnier_," he declared in a warm and pleasant voice worthy of a tenor. "It's with enthusiasm and hope that I foresee our collaboration which will undoubtedly continue to make shine the Academy of Music."

Near her mother behind the row of dancers, Meg tried somehow to stand on tiptoes and to crane her neck to glimpse the handsome Viscount through the crowd.  
- "Christine, can you see him? Is he really as charming as everybody claims?" asked the little blond without stopping to prance.  
After several infructuous and silent seconds, she turned around to talk to her friend, but the _demoiselle_ was nowhere to be seen. She had simply vanished, disappeared into thin air or rather in the labyrinth of the Opera.  
- "Christine? Where did you again take refuge?" she muttered with an unhappy pout.  
If the young soprano wasn't interested in this new benefactor, Meg wasn't going to hesitate being curious and miss the festivities to run after her elusive companion.

**X X X X**

Kneeling on the stony ground of the modest chapel, Christine was slowly getting back her breath after her emotion and her hasty race through the long corridors and high stairs. What a surprise! She had never expected to see him again one day in such circumstances. It's been twelve years since she had not seen him, since the days where they had met for the first time on the beach at Perros-Guirec. She would always remember the brave little boy who had run into the sea to get her red scarf that the wind had snatched from her. Raoul de Chagny… Their friendship had begun at the autumn of her ten years while the young nobleman was in boarding school at his aunt's where he learned the rudiments of navigation at the insistence of his father, the Comte Philippe de Chagny, however, he quickly abandoned his tedious lessons to devote daily to her new friend, to the chagrin of his teacher.

From the day they met, the two children never left each other. They capered on the moor, laughing, climbed trees like two squirrels, picked up large shells between the pebbles at the seashore and listened tirelessly father Daaé play his melancholy tunes. But what they liked most of all, it was the fantastic stories, old Breton tales and ancient legends of the North. Almost every day, they went hand in hand and roamed the villages in search of a fable. Nobody ever locked their door for them and everyone had always a myth to tell. The goblins, elves, fairies, gnomes, ghosts and other mythical creatures frolicked in their dreamy and innocent little soul. However, their favorite moment was still when they sat by the fire with father Daaé who told them the most wonderful stories they had heard. Sometimes it was sad and sometimes it was beautiful; however the stories they cherished the most were those where the Angel of Music and Little Lotte appeared.

Throughout a carefree year, the two children lived every moment of joy together, but the following fall, their little idyll was going to break. The boy's father fell ill and he demanded the presence of his son at his side. So he left with a farewell kiss to the girl and the promise that he would return soon to her. Three years passed before he returned in Perros-Guirec. The little dreaming boy had grown up and was now a young man while Christine, even if she looked like a teenager, had kept her fanciful and playful soul. They exchanged little more than three words of politeness as he remained with father Daaé and Professor Valérius, with whom he spoke of politics and economics. Christine had to face the fact that he had forgotten her, he had matured and that her merry playmate was gone. The Viscount remained only two days in Perros before to leave again his little comrade behind him, but she realized that this time he would never come back.

Even if she resented him for having abandoned her without a word formerly, Christine could not help but be enchanted to see him again. He had become a charming and attractive gentleman who would not leave the fairer sex indifferent. She was happy for him, he had become the man he wanted and had found his place and path in life. With a pensive gaze, Christine looked up at the lighted candle on the small altar of metal where the image of his father hung.  
- "Father, you'll never guess who resurfaced from the past," she asked the static and silent effigy. "My playmate, Raoul. Do you remember the endless hours we spent all three huddled by the fire listening to you telling us your old Nordic tales? These moments were magical, precious and blessed. We were alone in the world. Raoul, my childhood sweetheart," she sighed with a dreamy look and a bright smile.  
Silence hovered around her while her eyes wandered over the fresco painted on the wall before her, an angel in prayer with an ample white robe and golden wings. A breath passed across her face and made the candles flicker before a murmur rises in the narrow room.  
- "Oh, Christine…"  
She had never heard her name uttered in a tone as devastated, sorrowful and sad, but yet so sweet and harmonious. She would recognize this voice among thousands without hesitation.  
- "Angel, are you there?" she asked, scrutinizing each wall around her.  
At this moment, one of the walls shook with a thud as if someone had hit it with violence.  
- "Why, Christine?" grated the Voice bitterly.  
- "Angel, what's going on? You seem upset," she said alarmed, standing up on her knees, anxious to hear as much sorrow as anger in his words.  
In answer, she heard the noise of a metal object crashing on the ground, followed by a hoarse and raging roar.  
- "No… no! Never!" roared the Spirit.  
Again, silence fell in the chapel and, whereas before it was soothing and comforting, it now seemed austere and oppressive. Frightened at the thought she had done something wrong that had offended her Angel, she called him desperately on numerous occasions. But no reply came. She hastened to kneel before her candle, clasped her hands and prayed for hours in the hope that the Angel of Music would hear her and come back.

She remained all day in the cold and austere chapel without ceasing to invoke her Genius of Music, but no voice rose in response to her prayer. After hours of fruitless waiting, she heard music and songs buzzing in her ears in the midst of her desperate and rambling thoughts. Hope clutched her heart; unfortunately she soon realized that it wasn't her Guardian, but the noise of the stage. Apparently, the gala evening was at its peak. Discouraged and destroyed, Christine's head slumped against her chest and a solitary tear rolled down her cheek like a dewdrop. For the first time since he had entered her life, the Angel did not answer her call. It was with heavy and saddened heart that she left the crypt to join her dorm where rats of the Opera were preparing to sleep after their long day's work. As she lay on her little bed and pulled the blankets under her chin, she uttered a last request to the Voice asking for forgiveness. She fell asleep with the faint hope that he would be present at dawn to give her daily singing lessons that he had never missed.

He had not come. After she awoke, Christine had hastened to join her dressing room to receive her instruction, but he never came. The Angel had simply disappeared. Had he also abandoned her as her mother and father and the parents Valérius had done before? What crime had she committed to deserve such punishment? Was she doomed to remain forever separated from those she loved? Was there no one to save her from her loneliness, to guide her and love her? She refused that this story ends like this. She was ready to endure any penance to be forgiven and brought back her Mentor. She had to return to the source of his invocation, where she's heard him for the first time. After having made some arrangements with the coachman of the Opera, she returned in the dormitory to change clothes where she was joined by Meg who sat cross-legged on the bunk next to Christine's one.  
- "Christine! But where had you disappeared? You really missed everything yesterday during the gala night in honor for the managers" cheered the dancer, clapping her hands gleefully while Christine was turning her back on her. "The Phantom has made an appearance last night. In reality, he was sighted on two occasions," she exulted, beginning to wrap a blond strand of her long hair around her tiny fingers. "After your departure, the _Vicomte_ has graciously offered champagne to the whole assembly and, according to Jammes, the Phantom had crossed the room like a shadow to steal a bottle of champagne and drop a welcome message for the new owners. _Maman_ has found it on a chair near the mirrors. You should have seen the faces of _Messieurs_ Poligny and Debienne when she has read them the missive. They were as pale as if they had actually seen the Ghost. As for the new directors, they thought it was a joke and they laughed a lot, but they will soon be disappointed when they will realize that it's not a joke and that the Phantom is not to be taken lightly," chuckled Meg without that Christine looked at her once. "Then, Buquet has glimpsed him in the flies during the performance, at the same time one of the capstans uncoiled, releasing one of the scene's canvases that collapsed on Carlotta in the middle of her lyrical flights. You should have seen that. It took almost fifteen minutes to the machinists to release her from the hanging while she insulted them continually," laughed Meg, holding her sides.  
In front of her, Christine continued her dressing without blinking, or talking as if she was unaware of her friend's presence. With a displeased sigh, the dancer got up and approached the little brunette.  
- "You are quite silent. Usually, that kind of incident make you laugh out loud. Something's wrong?" she asked, sinking gracefully on the bed of her friend.  
Immediately, she noticed Christine's red and puffy eyes while she finished lacing her bodice.  
- "You cried? What has happened?" she worried.  
- "Nothing. All is well, Meg."  
- "No, you seem upset," claimed the young woman taking her hands to get her attention. "We are friend, Christine. You know you can tell me everything!"  
- "Thank you, Meg… but it's a problem I have to settle alone," eluded the diva pressing affectionately the palms of her comrade before releasing them to catch her mantle.  
- "Are you leaving? But where are you going? Mom will be furious to see you missed rehearsals for two consecutive days. Do you realize that she will punish you for your lack of discipline?" Meg told, trying to reason her.  
- "I know, but it's a risk I must take!" she explained, capping a black shawl around her head. "Thank you to worry about me, _Marguerite_! You're the best friend I can have!" Christine whispered before kissing her cheek gently. "I must go."  
At these words she turned and left Meg lost in her own procrastination in the middle of the empty dormitory. The ballerina shook her head in perplexity. For several months she no longer recognized her friend who reacted unpredictably and sometimes senseless as if someone else controlled her thoughts and actions. She wondered what could be the secret she was hiding and that she could not even share with her best friend. With an exasperated sigh, she got up and quickly returned to her dance classes before her mother noticed her absence and scolded her.

Christine knew this trip by heart. It was a ritual she performed regularly and that always helped her to relieve her pain and to clarify her thoughts. Her gaze lost in the bright red petals of roses she had bought at a florist on the road, Christine let her thoughts drift slowly back to that day when she had heard him for the first time. That had happened more than three months ago, but she remembered it as if it was the day before.

For several days, she had been the target of mockery and criticism of La Carlotta and her mood had deteriorated severely, her thoughts were helpless and moody, her energy drained from her body and mind. Her soul in torment, she had gone to the cemetery to pray at her father's grave hoping that being close to him would help relieve her grief. For hours she had stayed kneeling near the monument whispering to him, spilling her misfortunes and her ephemeral joys in the hope that he would hear her prayers. Carried away by her feelings of desolation and unspeakable sorrow, she had begun to sing with all the torments that weighed on her heart. She had mourned the premature and unjust loss of her father who had been her only friend, this man who had been the center of her universe whose foundations had collapsed at his death. She had begged the heavens for a chance, if only for a brief moment, to hear his voice again, to hug him and to see his face a last time. The more she had sunk into despair, the more her words and her singing had gained in strength and intensity as if the music had suddenly taken control of her being.

While she proclaimed her sadness with all her soul, the melody of a violin was heard in the cemetery to accompany the lyrical voice of the young woman. Christine had thought at first that her afflicted reason was playing her tricks and that she was delirious, but after several minutes, she had realized that the instrument followed her words and played her melody. She had thought that a musician was standing in the area and had overheard her bitter singing by which he had been upset and had chosen to accompany her. Intrigued by this sweet and amazing melody, Christine had left the tomb and wandered in the sanctuary in search of the musician. She had chased the lament amidst the graves and each time she believed herself close to it, it had gone away and had reappeared in another corner of the park. After long minutes of pursuit, she had found herself at her starting point where the chant changed and intensified. It was at that moment, amid the silence of the dead and the mystical notes spilled by this invisible violin that she had heard his harmonious and heavenly Voice for the first time. The Angel of Music had revealed himself to her senses and had called her to him. This meeting had taken place many months ago, and since that blessed day, he had been omnipresent in Christine's existence, guiding her destiny and healing her forlorn soul. He had become her Guardian.

When the team reached the entrance of the small park, Christine thanked the driver and dismissed him, explaining that she preferred to walk home to soothe her mind. With a neglected shrug, the driver snapped the reins and drove away, leaving Christine alone in front of the tall gates of the rudimentary and silent cemetery. The paths of this tiny necropolis had no secrets for her, so she could browse them eyes closed to reach her destination without even getting wrong. After several minutes of silent wandering among the gray headstones springing from the ground like ghosts, she walked to a corner a bit isolated with rows of more sober and indigent graves. She approached one of them and knelt humbly at the foot of the tomb engraved with the name of Gustave Daaé. Breathing for the last time the flowers sweet fragrance, she carefully placed the bouquet on the ground of the vault.  
- "_Bonjour, papa_. I brought you a small gift… red roses… your favorite flowers," she announced wistfully, then her shoulders sagged and her head bowed despondently. "Oh, _Papa_, I wish you could be somehow here to provide me advice. It's been several months since the Angel of Music visits me every day to teach me his Art and, under his tutelage, I'm progressing continuously and with extraordinary rapidity, so that my voice seems not to belong to me. I even sometimes do not recognize me when I sing. In his presence, I have the feeling to touch the Skies and fly among the Angels," she marveled with a faint smile. "But _Papa_, I think I did something wrong and have sorely disappointed him… Yesterday in the morning, I went in the chapel of the Opera to be with you, but this is my Guardian that I have found. When he spoke to me, his Voice was broken, distant, shattered… He seemed upset, then I heard a scream of rage and despair before the mournful silence fell around me," she moaned, tears begin to flow freely down her pale cheeks. "I prayed in vain to be forgiven and bring him back to me… but he never responded to my call. I fear that he has fled and he will never come back… Oh, _Papa_, if you knew how I regret… Whatever my sin, I am ready to endure every penitence to bring him back to me. I swear to obey him blindly and faithfully," she promised in a sad, but resolute tone. "His Voice has become to me as vital as the air I breathe… His divine song exacerbates in my heart strange and unknown feelings of which I have become intoxicated. Far from his aura, I'm just a shadow, wandering aimlessly. His silence is the worst punishment I could suffer. Without him, my life has no further purpose. I need him to teach me to live… to give me the strength to face the future… to love me."  
At these words, her body bent even more to the point she was almost prostrate on the grave, hiding her tearful face against her hands folded in prayer.  
- "_Père_, I beg you… Beseech the Angel to return to my side… to grant me his mercy," she whimpered bitterly. "Angel, my soul is weak… Forgive me…"  
Her last words were stifled and strangled by the flood of tears that flowed in torrents down her distraught face. She knew that such a demonstration of disgrace and self-pity was not going to plead for her with her Guardian, but she could not restrain her tears. Her sorrow, her remorse and her shame were too unbearable for her weakened heart.

A slight breeze sprang up suddenly, bringing in its volutes the tenuous and indistinct rumor of a melancholy melody. Deafened by her sobs, Christine didn't hear at all the bitter lamentation of that sweet and mysterious chant that seemed to accompany each trickle of her tears. It was only when the complaint magnified, intensified, vibrated and unfurled around her like two familiar and comforting arms, she realized a violin poured its sad notes in the cemetery. She abruptly raised her head with hope of seeing this artist capable of making cry his bow with such accuracy and skill. The area was deserted, yet she was convinced that the player and his music were just steps away from her. It seemed as if this _requiem_ sprang from her father's grave. Her heart skipped a beat and her breath froze on a gasp at the thought that her prayer had been heard.  
- "Who is it there, staring?" she exclaimed into the wind without stopping to peer into the surroundings.  
Immediately, the melody softens and embellished in the same movement as if suddenly a chorus of Cherubs approached her to whisper in her hear.  
- "Have you forgotten your Angel of Music?" announced the harmonious Voice.  
- "Angel, I hear you… Speak… I listen…"  
- "Christine, I apologize for my improper and unworthy behavior of yesterday. The reason was that I heard your words about this… boy and I thought you had broken your promise, given in to human temptation and denied my protection. But your presence here shows me that I was wrong, that you've remained loyal to me and didn't betray me."  
- "I never could! You are my Guardian… my eternal Light that guides me, glowing in the world unfathomable and oppressive darkness. I can't live without you," she revealed fervently.  
- "Do I understand that you still want to receive my teaching?"  
- "Yes, I implore you! I would do anything you want, if you agree to return to me."  
- "Christine, if our relationship continues, sacrifices will be required from you!" he admitted gravely. "Are you ready to give up your earthly pleasures, your material possessions, and your simple mortal life? Will you devote yourself wholeheartedly to your Art, work without complaining or challenging and surpass yourself to reach the glory and know the music of Heaven? Will you bear to suffer for excel?" he asked with a cold tone in which could be guessed, however, affection and kindness.  
- "Yes, my Angel, I am your faithful and devoted servant!" she proclaimed, bowing her face with humility.  
- "So be it! By the oath you swore, now, you are no longer just a student, but a _protégée_ from the Angel of Music. As such, you owe me obedience and loyalty, and in exchange, I will teach you to sing like the Immortal Seraphs!" he said solemnly.  
- "Yes, my Angel, I promise !" she uttered in a glorified and pious whisper.  
- "Go now, Christine! Return to the Opera and take some rest. Tomorrow will begin your Initiation. A long and difficult path lies before you, during which many sacrifices will be necessary," he concluded in a sepulchral breath as though he spoke from the limbo of another world, from the confines of Heaven.  
The music that had not ceased to undulate around them during their conversation weakens gradually as if the violinist was moving away from the tomb until it disappears completely. Christine knew that the Angel was gone, but she was not frightened. He had sworn to return to her and baptized her in the sacred fire from which he had sprung.  
-"Thank you, Father…" she murmured weakly before signing.

Her fears finally calmed, she rose and left the cemetery to take the road that would bring her to the Palais Garnier. For several hours, she strolled in the busy and turbulent streets of Paris, harmonizing and calming her upset thoughts and emotions. It was clear mind and a heart full of hope that she arrived at the opera where Madame Giry was waiting her with a scowling look.


	2. Chapter 2 : Rehearsals

**~ Chapter 2 ~****  
****‑** Rehearsals **‑**

* * *

As he had promised Christine, the Angel came to her the next day in the first hour, then returned the next morning, and the one after that and all the other days that followed during the two weeks that he initiated her to the Music of Heaven. All he had taught her through these recent months seemed to be a coarse preamble, a rough sketch in comparison to what he revealed to her throughout his new lessons. She had the impression to have hardly glimpsed a tiny portion of the infinite treasure he had to offer. Previously, he has contented himself to train her to sing, to repeat and to listen, but now he thaught her to live and feel the Music in any cell of her body as if it were an integral part of her soul. When she listened to his singing, sometimes she had had the sensation of touching the divine, but since he had infused into her the essence of his Art, she was transported into the loving arms of the Angels themselves each time that she heard him.

If once she had been stunned by the progress of her voice, henceforth she was overwhelmed by its total transformation, its strength, its firmness and its precision. The bass strings that she had weakly developed became a vibrant and deep tone, high pitches that she had some difficulty to reach were transformed into innocuous warm-up exercises and the banal medium of her voice flourished in a rich and passionate range. She quickly increased the volume of sounds in proportions which she thought never being able to reach, she learned to give a larger amplitude to her breathing, and her Guardian gave her the secret of developing chest sounds in a soprano voice. Finally, he embellished his _protégée's_ heart with the sacred fire of virtue and inspiration until she soared to his side. Christine seemed to be no longer mistress of her being, to sing with the voice of another. The Voice of the Angel lived in her soul; they were in perfect harmony, a glorious communion where they become one single mind. During these few hours she spent daily in his fathering presence, she was no longer living in the physical world of Men, but in a mystical Universe where Music and Dreams were the only reality. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she felt alive and happy.

The perfection she achieved after these two weeks would need for common mortals years of classical training with an ordinary professor. But her Maestro was by no means ordinary. He was an Archangel, the Spirit of Music whose celestial accents flowed through his every vein. He lived in every note and every sound that humans sang with their mouths or played on their instrument. And Christine had been chosen by this Divine Being who fashioned her in his image and breathed into her a spark of the burning Light from which he was born.

For two days, the Angel taught Christine the role of _Marguerite_ in _Faust_, explaining that this was a key figure in a diva's repertoire. Indeed, what better than this heroine who got through the status of innocent girl to that of betrayed and disillusioned mistress driving to madness by the lies of a man and the devil, but ultimately saved by the love of angels. More than ever, the young diva felt exalted to sing this libretto so moving and overwhelming with her Guardian whose voice carried her to Heaven.

The day's session has been particularly fiery, thrilling and strenuous for Christine's emotions. The young soprano was usually so calm, quiet and almost subdued that her heart was quickly exhausted by the powerful feelings evoked in this magnificent work. Standing before her mirror, Christine wiped a few tears on her face as the last notes of their passionate duet faded through the walls of her dressing room. A long silence hovered between them during which she thought the Angel was gone, disappointed by her performance. She frowned with anxiety and she bit her lip in apprehension, wringing her hands nervously.  
-"It was divine," the Voice told with reverence.  
-"Thank you," she whispered, blushing before looking down.  
-"You are worthy to sing among the angels, my child. No mortal or immortal could resist the beauty of your song," he flattered her proudly.  
-"_Je vous en prie! _I feel so insignificant compared to your excellence. I could never sing as beautifully as you or surpass the grandeur of Carlotta," she lamented, her shoulders sagging to her words.  
The Angel let out a derisive chuckle that ricocheted around the girl like the roar of a drum. Her eyes widened with astonishment to hear him laugh in a mocking tone. Were the Angels able to show sarcasm?  
-"Ah, Christine! You surpass her for a very long time, trust me. Carlotta is merely an ordinary stone whereas you're a bright diamond."  
-"What do you mean?" she asked with curiosity before sitting on a chair near the mirror.  
-"Well, a violin is a beautiful object, but it really becomes a musical instrument only when the player infused and translated his emotions and his soul through his notes. It is the same with this woman. Carlotta is a beautiful and banal instrument, but she's not a voice. She merely reproduces techniques, notes and sounds without trying to give them depth, to transcend them. Her singing is as exciting as practicing scales," he criticized ironically.  
Christine suppressed a laugh, listening to her Maestro condemning Carlotta's artistic talents. She would have never imagined that an angel can be so spiteful and aggressive towards a person.  
-"A Voice must have a soul, heart, authenticity, emotion in every of its vibrations," he continued, his tone inflaming during his speech. "The singer must feel, live, endure the feelings violence that the music and lyrics exhale. It should not be a simple vocal exercise, but an elevation of the soul and being. And that's what I feel in you, Christine! The passion, the fire, the essence of Music flows through your veins. I hear it every time you sing. If you want to know the music of angels, forget everything you learned and let your heart speak… Do not sing with your voice, but with your soul!" he uttered solemnly.  
Intoxicated by the speech of her Professor, Christine was leaning forward on her chair without realizing as if the mirror attracted her to it. The Angel seldom remained with her after their lesson to chat, but she remembered that every time he had lingered, she had been elated and calmed by their discussion. She was happy to share her doubts and sorrows, to talk with a friend who listened and counseled her with wisdom and kindness, to be with someone who cared about her and look after her welfare as her father once did. She felt loved and protected what she has not known for too long.  
-"Thank you, my Angel, for all you've given me over the past few months. You have not only rekindled my voice, but also my soul. I am indebted to you what I would never be able to pay back," she lamented with an afflicted and contrite air.  
-"You owe me nothing, my sweet child. I require no compensation in exchange for my services. Your happiness is my only concern. Your grace and your voice continually fill me with joy and pride, which is more than enough to reward me," he affirmed fondly.  
-"I wish sometimes that you were not an angel, but just a man I could look into his shimmering eyes, whom I could shake hands and whom I could kiss the cheek to thank him for all he gave me," she confessed with a timid air, her fingers fiddling nervously with the folds of her skirt, fearing to go too far into her confidence.  
-"Christine… I wish it could be that way," he sighed. "Maybe one day God will make me a man and allow me to be with you."  
-"You would abandon heaven for me?" she exclaimed in amazement.  
-"I would give everything I own, including my soul, to be beside you, Christine!" he revealed solemnly as if he was swearing an oath to God.  
The girl was moved and amazed by his admission that reflected the same feelings she hid in her heart. She longed to be with him, to be hugged in his protective arms, to admire the immortal beauty of his face. If the choice was presented to her, she would leave without hesitation or fear the world of Men to join him in heaven.  
-"But, after all, maybe I can…" he announced, enigmatic. "Get up and go near the mirror, Christine…"  
Like a puppet dangling to its threads obeying instinctively to his Master, the young girl got up from her chair and walked to the huge looking-glass before which she stopped. A step separated her from her reflection that she peered uneasily. Her features seemed dull, coarse, and tasteless, her cheeks were pale, her too thick lips and her too large eyes seemed unsuitable to her little face and her hair looked like a tangle of unruly and shapeless dark curls.  
-"Put your hand on the glass and close your eyes," the Voice commanded with a note of melancholy and hope.  
Pleased to conceal the vision that stood before her, Christine instantly obeyed by putting her palm on the mirror and closing her eyes. Immediately, the atmosphere of the room seemed to change and trembled with supernatural energy as the air charging with electricity before a storm. A shiver of apprehension ran through the girl's spine, but at the same time she felt intoxicated and exalted.  
-"Angel…" she whispered fearfully.  
-"Shhh… Don't think, Christine! Forget the place where you are! Concentrate only on my voice and your hand," the Angel reassured when she frowned with concern. "Abandon yourself to your senses!"  
Listening to the words of her Maestro, she took a deep breath she exhaled slowly until she perceived the tension leaving each of her tense muscle.  
-"_Très bien_," he agreed when he saw the lines on her forehead disappear, her shoulders slacken and her silhouette relax. "How do you feel, my child?"  
-"I feel good… calm, comforted, protected, loved," she whispered as if she was dreaming, the words not seeming to come from her mouth.  
-"And the mirror?"  
-"It's warm, smooth, hard… impersonal!"  
-"I am with you, Christine! Do you feel my presence?" he murmured.  
-"I… I don't know. It's strange," the girl stammered when she felt a warm breath brushing her face and hair.  
Around her, the room didn't seem deserted any more. She had the distinct impression that someone was with her, watched her… touched her. Under her hand, she no longer felt the hardness of the glass, but the softness and warmth of a palm.  
-"Yes, I feel it!" she exclaimed in an incredulous whisper. "It's a sensation light, divine, warm, soft… as if your hand touched mine through the mirror," she marveled, a glorious smile stretching her lips.  
-"Christine… you are the true Angel of Music!" he announced in a singing and adoring tone, filled with love and tenderness.  
Full of hope and joy, Christine opened her eyes, convinced to finally discover her Guardian before her, but only her reflection presented itself to her eyes. Her pale cheeks were tinted in a delicate pink, and her dark eyes shone with a burning flame. Despite the disappointment of having found herself alone, she was elated at the thought that she had just touched her Angel.  
-"_Ma Muse_… I offered you my art and I raised your soul to Heaven. It's time for you to share your gift. The next time you will sing, my spirit and your voice will be one! Soon all Paris will acclaim you! Go now, Christine, you can give to Men a little of the Music of Heaven!" he announced with pride and severity, thus putting an end to their interview.  
-"Thank you, Maestro…" she whispered, her hand still on the looking-glass which still seemed to radiate from the heat and light of her Angel.  
After several magical seconds, she stepped away from the mirror and she frowned in perplexity and amazement, discovering on the glass the mark of another hand of large size and with long elegant fingers. This imprint was at the same place as hers, but reversed as if the Angel had stood on the other side of the mirror to touch her. A broad smile lit up Christine's face when she realized she had not dreamed this moment and that her Guardian had truly touched her hand.

**X X X X**

During the afternoon, rehearsals progressed with difficulty despite the fact that it was _Faust_ that everyone knew by heart. Madame Giry was not satisfied with any of her dancers, the orchestra was constantly in the wrong times and was lectured by the conductor, Mr. Reyer, and lighting engineers and carpenters shouted thousands insults and orders behind the scenes while they assembled the scenery. As for La Carlotta, she fanned herself continually, wiping her perspiring forehead and half the time missed her entrance or forget her cue, which was abnormal. The whole company was nervous, tired and distracted. The reason for this unusual dissipation was none other than the presence of the young _Vicomte_ sitting in the auditorium with the directors. Each one was trying to appear at her best and watched him with interest and _coquetterie_ in the hope of attracting the handsome man's attention, so none of them was focused on their role or their movements, which resulted in a general disorder on the scene.

For the tenth consecutive time, Carlotta, dressed as _Marguerite_, crossed the stage where a small crowd of dancers dressed as peasants and soldiers was scattering while Piangi in the role of _Docteur Faust_ approached her to begin his reply.

_Ne permettrez-vous pas, ma belle demoiselle,  
__Qu'on vous offre la main pour faire le chemin ?_

No sooner were those words out of his mouth that Mr. Mercier burst on the set from the wings, protesting with authority to interrupt the actors.  
-"_Non, non, non_! It's not his hand he offers her, but his arm, _Signor_ Piangi," the _répétiteur_ corrected trying to silence the uproar of the exasperated _corps de ballet_.  
-"Yes, _è vero_, the arm and not the hand. _Scusi_, can we resume," the singer stuttered while Carlotta looked up to heaven with an exhausted and irritated look.  
The orchestra resumed its arrangements and each one took their place as if the interruption had not occurred.

_Ne permettrez-vous pas, ma belle demoiselle,  
__Qu'on vous offre le bras pour faire le chemin ?_

Carlotta turned away from her courtier with feigned modesty without ceasing to flutter her fan, which seemed quite unnecessary seeing the heavy sweat-drops streaming down her waxy forehead.

_Non, monsieur ! je ne suis demoiselle, ni belle,  
__Et je n'ai pas besoin qu'on me donne la main !_

She walked away unsteadily before Piangi continued the scene with _Méphistophélès_. Lost in the fake crowd, Christine, who played the role of _Siebel_ threw many anxious glances towards the _Vicomte_, fearing every moment he would recognize her and approach her. Since he had arrived in the room, she had had only some minor replies and had not been unmasked, since she was dressed as a young man and anonymous in the middle of the crowd. Moreover, the young nobleman was frequently accosted and distracted by the managers who talked and laughed softly. But during the next act, _Siebel_ sang several couplets in solo and she feared that her voice would betray her, not to mention she would be alone on stage and all the attention would be on her. The scene was almost touching ending and Christine anxiety only increased. The Angel had been very strict and unequivocal about the Viscount. She must neither approach him nor talk to him.  
_Faust_ along with the Devil left the stage while a group of young girl came forward and sang when a scream and a deafening crash arose from the sidelines. All recognized the screech of La Carlotta followed by invectives and exclamations of Piangi. In the auditorium, the managers fussed and got up to rush hastily on the scene closely followed by _Monsieur de Chagny,_ and join the right wing of the decoration from which the clamor had burst. _Messieurs_ Firmin, Moncharmin and De Chagny frowned when they discovered the soprano lying on the ground at the foot of a plaster column and of several machinists while the tenor was patting her hand gently. In a split second, the three men ran and knelt near their diva with concern.  
-"_Signora_, how are you?" Armand cried, clasping the other palm of the singer.  
-"What has happened?" Richard asked before fanning her livid face while Raoul tried to remove the curious to provide some air to the prima donna.  
-"The Phantom…" the young woman stammered. "He was there, hidden behind the scenery… He has emerged from the shadows like a demon and shot me an evil glance where seemed to burn the furnaces of Hell."  
-"_Mi_ _amor_, _è finito_," comforted Piangi, kissing the fingers of his wife.  
-"He approached me and told me in an icy and threatening tone it was obvious that I was ill and that if I was reasonable, I would understand it would be madness to go on stage tonight," she explained, shaking with dismay her beautiful red hair. "And he added that if I sang, I should suffer the consequences of my foolish obstinacy."  
-"Well, Madam, does he say true? Are you sick? Because it seemed to my colleague and myself that you were a bit careless and breathless during these last acts," _Monsieur_ Firmin ventured, staring her with suspicion.  
-"How dare you speak to me like this, _Messieurs_! I will not be slandered by two opportunists who understand nothing about music!" the diva enraged, straightening proudly to sit and face the two directors. "I am not one of your simple-minded chorus girls. I'm La Carlotta! I already interpreted grand opera while you were still busy playing the scribblers, _Messieurs_. It's not a sinister ghost, nor his two puppets that will stop me from singing!" she said pointing to her husband to help her stand up.  
Leaning firmly on Piangi's arm, the soprano got up with pride, but she was barely on her feet that she winced with a grumble before staggering and falling into the arms of her companion.  
-"_Signora_, are you hurt?" the Viscount worried, helping the singer to support the young woman.  
The scowling face of the _prima donna_ instantly softens when she saw the handsome nobleman come to her succor. She fluttered her eyelashes gently and wore her most honeyed and seductive smile to coax him.  
-"No, I'm fine. I was so scared after my encounter with this demon that I stumbled and I made a nasty fall," she explained simpering. "I had only twisted my ankle a little, but it's nothing serious. Don't worry, my dear. In a few minutes it will be gone!"  
-"Perfect, you see me relieved," the young man smiled, amused by the seductive ways of the artist.  
-"After all, I will not let you down before a gala night. It takes more than a few enigmatic intimidations to scare me," she assured with a winsome tone.  
Forthwith, a grim, cavernous and threatening laugh resounded in the flies above the stage as a mocking response to the diva's audacity. Troubled and concerned by that harmful noise, she pouted and raised a hand to her forehead, fluttering her eyelids before ordering Piangi to bring her back to her dressing room to rest, which he did without delay. While the soprano returned to her quarters, the reactions of the _corps de ballet_ were not long to wait while a worried murmur swelled and spread in the group.  
-"The Phantom… he's there!" Meg cried, pointing a catwalk in the dark.  
The ladies began to squeal in fear while the Viscount left the managers to approach the dancers who were eager to gather around him and to circle him.  
-"_Mesdemoiselles_, calm down! There is nothing to fear," he reassured, clasping the hand of a few girls who were clustered at his side.

Curious, Meg took a step to approach the beautiful _bourgeois_, but she was held by Christine who grabbed her sleeve and forced her to retreat behind the curtain.  
-"Christine! But what's wrong with you?" the girl roared, eyeing her friend with a black look.  
The acute and surprised cry that Meg had yelled when her comrade had caught her had attracted the attention of the Viscount who insistently looked in their direction. His gaze and Christine's one crossed for a disturbing second, but the girl got frightened and grabbed Meg's hand to lead her away from the scene under her thundering protests.  
With the constant young dancer's outcry, Christine took her to the dormitory where they sat on her bed after casting a last look down the corridor to ensure that no one had followed them.  
-"Christine, why have you brought us here? Especially when the situation was getting captivating!" Meg grumbled, folding her arms on her chest with a sulky expression. "You are perhaps not excited by the Viscount, but don't prevent others to be interested in him!"  
Embarrassed and confused, the little brunette looked down shyly and twitched her fingers nervously in the tails of the shirt that made up her costume.  
-"Excuse me, _Marguerite_. I was wrong. I did not mean to offend you," she grieved.  
-"Frankly, Christine, for some time I do not recognize you! You spend hours alone locked up in your dressing room, you daydream all day long and every time the _Vicomte_ _De_ _Chagny _is around, you become fearful and anxious like a mouse cornered by a cat," Meg enumerated with a shrug of misunderstanding. "Can you explain me what's happening to you or is it again one of your mysterious secret?"  
-"What secret?"  
-"_Oh, non!_ Don't make fun of me! I know you're hiding a major event! I do not know what it is; however, it must be something serious and paramount to affect you so deeply."  
Christine had a worried start to Meg's words, but she was reassured when she understood that she knew nothing of her meetings with the Angel of Music. He had been adamant on the fact that their lessons had to remain a secret until he decided that the time had come to show her talents to the public. After his puzzling words this morning, she sensed that this great moment was approaching very quickly, which was only increasing her anguish, as well as the unscheduled visits of the Viscount who explored every corner of the Opera and attended many rehearsals. Until that moment, she had managed somehow to avoid him, but she could not play this game forever. Sooner or later he would recognize her.  
-"Christine? You daydream again!" Meg grumbled, shaking her friend's shoulder.  
-"No, I can fully explain," Christine announced, continuing their conversation as if there had been no interruption. "I am uncomfortable with the Viscount, because I know him… or rather I have known him."  
-"_Quoi?_" the dancer choked, her eyes wide. "You know the _Vicomte De Chagny_!"  
-"Yes, but it was a long time ago… when I lived by the ocean in Brittany with my father. We lived a whole year of childhood joys. He called me his little Lotte. We shared what you could call a childhood sweetheart."  
-"This is adorable! And what has happened?"  
-"Well, he left to join his father and I saw him again many years later just before the war," Christine told with a shrug.  
-"This still doesn't explain why you're avoiding him?"  
The young lady fidgeted with embarrassment. She could not possibly admit to Meg that her Angel had forbidden her to approach the young noble, but she felt disloyal to lie to her best friend. So she told the truth by concealing a part of the story.  
-"At his departure, he had sworn to return quickly to my side and I have waited for years. Moreover, the man I have then discovered had nothing in common with my playmate. We were inseparable and he forgot me overnight as if I had never existed," she revealed in an indignant tone. "I blame him for leaving me in a manner so gross and lout, without mentioning that he has never written. I don't want to see him, because I am not yet ready to forgive his oaf behavior," she infuriated, brushing in a sudden movement a lock of hair that had escaped from her bun.  
-"You impress me, Christine! I never thought you were so rancorous, or that you were able to be angry. I thought your only trait of bad character was scolding the younger when they chatter during class," Meg teased, inducing a mischievous smile on the sullen face of the young diva.  
They both laughed wholeheartedly, realizing the idiocy of the situation. It was true that she reproached Raoul for his erstwhile attitude, but there was a long time that she had forgiven him. More than once she had been tempted to talk to him, but her fear of losing and infuriating her Angel was stronger than her friendship for the young man. She preferred to be alone rather than disobey a direct order from her Guardian. Raoul had once been his companion, but now the Angel of Music held this role with zeal and boldness.  
Moreover, she had no illusions about the direction that their relationship would take. He was a Viscount, a man of power and she was an actress of opera, an anonymous and modest artist. A noble family would never allow a poor peasant girl to marry one of its sons; however, if it were to afford some indelicate pleasures, social differences were not a problem. Although still a relatively young recruit in the troupe, she had already seen several dancers and singers being seduced and debauched by the _bourgeoisie_ despite _Madame_ Giry recommendations. By his warnings, constraints and prohibitions, her Protector preserved her from wicked misdeeds of these so-called patrons and other benefactors of the arts. She hoped that Raoul was not one of these boors who leered girls in the backstage after the shows, but many things had changed during these long years. He was perhaps no more the brave knight who had run into the sea to retrieve her scarf just as she was no longer the little happy and carefree girl she had once been. They were now adults with their own lives evolving in two different and opposite worlds. If they had been close before, now everything separated them.

**X X X X**

In the director's office, the atmosphere was electric and agitated. While rehearsals were continuing without the presence of La Carlotta returned in her dressing room to rest, the managers had retired to their office to devote themselves to the various administrative tasks of the day. Sorting their daily mail, they discovered on the desk under a pile of stamped letters an envelope with no address edged with black and closed with a seal in the shape of a skull in red wax. The two men cried out in surprise and displeasure, recognizing the strange missive. Since they had taken over management of the Opera, these letters arrived regularly on their desk without anyone knowing where they came from, nor who deposited them, seeming to appear by magic. At first they had thought it was a farce of the former owners who had made them believe that a ghost lived in the premises and was responsible for this mysterious correspondence. However, after several days of this ploy, Mr. Firmin got annoyed and decided to change all the locks on the wing where sat the administration to discourage their jokers. Yet, despite all their precautions, the notes continued to reach to their office as if they materialized directly on their desks.

The first of these messages had been conveyed to them by _Madame_ Giry the same day they had taken up their post, during the party organized for the departure of the resigning directors. This letter had been sent by a certain O.G. who was welcoming them into his Opera and prayed the former directors to inform the new management of his _cahier des charges_ and his instructions on how his theater was to be run. Immediately, _Messieurs_ Poligny and Debienne had become as pale as death and had shot each other anxious glance before to make a sign to their new replacements to follow them to the director's office. It was then they presented the memorandum-book of the Opera that they hastily leafed through to find nothing unusual or unexpected. It was only the official rules governing the functions and management of the Academy of Music. However, Poligny had insisted, pointing to Article 98 which described the conditions that management should take to preserve its right to manage the Opera and which, if they were not met, could lead to its dismissal. Richard had instantly noticed that the copy of the present book differed from the copy they had received from the Ministry. Below this section, a paragraph was added in red ink and in a bizarre and tormented handwriting, but no less elegant and refined. This paragraph contained these lines that Mr. Firmin read aloud.

_« 5° __Or if the manager, in any month, delay for more than a fortnight the payment of the allowance which he shall make to the Opera Ghost, an allowance of twenty thousand francs a month, say two hundred and forty thousand francs a year. »_

With sheepish and uncomfortable look, Poligny had taken the book from Firmin's hands, had again glanced through the book and read the portion of Article 63 which established lodges bookings and which had also been completed at the red ink.

« _Box Five on the grand tier shall be placed at the disposal of the Opera Ghost for every performance._ »

Messrs. Richard and Armand had stared each other in surprise before guffawing loudly under the indignant and incredulous eyes of the retiring directors. Never a joke had seemed them better crafted and realistic, however, they asserted that it was no question of a farce and that the Phantom was a most serious and grave subject. Despite these warnings and advice, the new owners didn't believe any word of their predecessors and neglected the claims of the Specter. At least until they realized that there was indeed not a bad joke and that a stranger was playing to blackmail and swindle them. The first messages had rather been polite and indulgent, nonetheless their contents had quickly become threatening, venomous and intractable, no longer contenting to ask, but to command. Mr. Moncharmin noticed from the beginning that the notes they received and the additions in the memorandum-book were in the same elegant, but irregular handwriting.  
Whoever this informer was, double locked doors didn't seem to discourage him, since each letter had been deposited in evidence and carefully on their desk in a room that, in all likelihood, had not been opened. After all, the Opera house was perhaps really haunted.

With an exasperated sigh,_ Monsieur_ Firmin unsealed this umpteenth envelope that would not fail to irritate him. The Phantom was beginning to become more and more annoying and unbearable. Not content to flood them with hateful mail, he also liked to scare the artists and audience, to play the troublemakers during performances and steal shamelessly in the kitchen or the various departments such as the Opera costumes. Unfolding the yellowed sheet, he read the few lines before to give it to his colleague who took it with a grimace.

_Mes chers Directeurs,_

_So is it to be war between us? Have I not been clear enough in my previous claims? If you still care to pursue our collaboration in peace, I insist that my requests are met, or you will suffer the consequences of your thoughtless actions._

_First, my salary has not yet been paid. I hope it is only an unfortunate omission on your part which will be repaired quickly. No one likes a debtor, so it's better if my orders are obeyed._

_Secondly, I was outraged in recent weeks to find that my box had been rented without my consent. I demand that it is duly restored to me and entirely at my disposal from henceforward._

_Lastly, if you do not want to represent _Faust_ in a cursed house, Miss Christine Daaé will sing the role of _Marguerite_ tonight. Don't be anxious; she knows that work in every detail. As for the insipid Mrs. Carlotta, don't worry about her, she will be sick._

_Hoping you will kindly consider these few comments, I remain, dear directors, your most humble and obedient servant._

_O.G._

Bewildered and exasperated, Armand sank heavily into a chair near his partner. That was new! The Phantom dared to make changes in the distribution.  
-"What do you think about?" he asked, throwing the letter on the desk.  
-"That this so-called ghost becomes increasingly detestable! If he thinks he can intimidate us and give us orders, he tires unnecessarily, because it is out of the question to get into his little game and to obey him," Richard asserted by smoothing the ends of his mustache with an determined look.  
-"What shall we do?"  
-"_Rien!_ The last we heard, Madame Carlotta is doing well and so there is no reason for alarm."  
The moment he finished his sentence, three light knocks were struck at the door and the directors welcomed their visitor who was _Madame_ Giry. She advanced in her flexible dancer step to the edge of their desks, her expression somewhat anxious.  
-"Yes, Madam, can we help you?" Moncharmin asked, leaning over the table where he folded his hands.  
-"Gentlemen, something unexpected happened," she told in dull tone. "Ms. Carlotta will not sing tonight for health reasons."  
-"_Quoi?_ But what has happened?" Armand cried, rising to his feet.  
-"She was fine when we left her earlier," insisted Mr. Firmin.  
-"I know, but apparently the food of the canteen is not supported by our soprano."  
-"_Par tous les Saints!_ What shall we do, Richard?" Moncharmin panicked before collapsing in his seat with a defeated feeling.  
-"There must be an understudy!" his friend thundered leaping to his feet to pace up and down the room.  
-"Understudy? There has never been one. Carlotta has never accepted she can be replaced. She is too jealous and haughty to admit that another could take her place," Madame Giry explained, tapping the silver handle of her cane.  
-"A full house and we have no lead! We will be forced to cancel the show and refund a fortune!" Armand lamented after taking out his handkerchief to mop his perspiring forehead. "All because of that damn Phantom!"  
Listening to this word, Richard frowned and recuperated the letter he quickly leafed to find the passage that interested him about a certain girl.  
-"Christine Daaé? You know this girl, Madame? Who is she? Does she have the shoulders for the role of _Marguerite_?" he asked.  
-"Christine? Well, she is still young and inexperienced, but she is very talented, intelligent and applied. In my humble opinion, she is promised to a great future," she revealed with some pride.  
-"With who has she studied?"  
-"As a child, her father taught her. Then when he died, she joined the Conservatory that she has left two years ago. She was hired at the Opera as a dancer and chorister at the beginning of the year, it's been ten months. To my knowledge, she has no current teacher," she lied, avoiding the prying eyes of the Directors.  
She knew pertinently that the Phantom secretly gave Christine singing lessons, but she had promised to remain discreet about these meetings for her safety and for the entire Academy. No one could envisage what the Specter was able to do to keep his _protégée_ with him. He was making no harm and even seemed to be less aggressive and vindictive since he focused on the girl.  
-"It seems that we have no choice, Richard. For tonight, we will have to manage without Carlotta and we should expect to make multiple refunds," Mr. Moncharmin lamented raising his hands to heaven in a helpless gesture.  
-"A chorus girl! Armand, this is doing nothing for my nerves! Let's hope that at least she won't faint before the end of the evening," Firmin snapped before taking his watch from his pocket. "In an hour the curtain rises and we will know if the Phantom is so omniscient that everyone says. Madam Giry, would you kindly go and inform the girl of this last minute change and help her prepare."  
-"With pleasure, gentlemen," she bowed, turning away from her managers.  
Hardly had she crossed the threshold that a new visitor entered the room with tumult and frustration, nervously whipping one of his shining boots with a long riding-whip. This stranger of forty years, with brilliantine hair and waxed mustache stood stoically on his two feet in front of the directors that he stared with a skeptical eye. Giving each other a puzzled look, the two men greeted their guest with suspicion.  
-"Sir, to whom have we the honor to address and what can we do for you?" Richard announced with a pleasant smile.  
-"_Monsieur_ Lachenal, your chief squire, to serve you. I came to ask you to dismiss the whole stable," he growled, giving a sharp whiplash on his boot.  
-"A stable! What stable?"  
-"But the stable of the Opera, that is yours, gentlemen. You are the owners of twelve magnificent horses, well, I should say eleven henceforth."  
-"What do you mean by « henceforth »?" Moncharmin asked, intrigued.  
-"I did have twelve before _César_ was being stolen!"  
-"_César?_ Who is this _César_?"  
-"A beautiful and unique stallion. _César_ is the white horse of the _Prophète_ and he has been stolen!" the squire snarled angrily.  
-"Stolen? Well, it seems that problems arrive on batch today! What do your stablemen say?"  
-"Nonsense… They accuse each other and nobody can say what happened. They deserve to be fired for their incompetence!"  
-"Don't get carried away, please! And you, Mr. Lachenal, have you an idea of what could have happen?" Firmin grumbled, shaking his hands.  
-"Yes, I have one. For me, there can be only one culprit… The Phantom has undoubtedly stolen him!" he said on a confidential tone as if he feared that the Specter can hear them.  
_Monsieur_ Richard then sank against the back of his chair, putting his hand to his forehead to hide his exasperation and frustration. There were just three weeks they had taken their position, yet he was as exhausted as if ten years had passed. He understood better why the previous management had chosen to resign.  
-"This Opera is a mad house!" he mumbled in a powerless tone.  
The night was going to be long and eventful.


	3. Chapter 3 : A Charming Gala

**A/N:**Dear readers, let me apologize for this long delay, but lately I've been very busy and hardly had time to devote myself to my story. However, here comes a new chapter, I hope you will enjoy. Feel free to leave me a little note to let me know your impressions. It will be most appreciated! Thank you very much for your patience and your interest in this story. I remain, my dear readers, your obedient servant, Taedium Vitae ...

* * *

~ Chapter 3~  
– A Charming Gala –

* * *

The time had come. This moment for which Christine had worked so hard, so much sacrificed and hoped. That day she expected since she was a child and to which her father had destined her as she sang at his side to the rhythm of his violin. Her dream would be fulfilled… thanks to her Angel who had given her a spark of his glory and his genius. She would never have achieved the excellence she possessed without his dedication, commitment and passion. It was with confidence and faith that he had offered her his voice and his grace; she would show herself worthy of it. As he had taught her, she would abandon, mingle and forget herself body and soul in music, letting herself be guided instinctively by her emotions and the poetic meanderings of the notes. She was ready to do anything to not disappoint him.  
Sitting in front of her dressing table's mirror, Christine rethought about the events that had just occurred. Less than an hour ago, _Madame_ Giry had burst into her dressing room to announce that Carlotta was sick and that the directors had chosen her to replace the diva. At these words, the girl's face had become livid. Fear, anxiety and doubt had instantly seized her to the point of make her quiver and oblige her to sit before she crumbles to the ground. Without losing a moment, _Madame_ took things in hand and fetched the dressers and makeup artists to prepare Christine for the stage. With the help and support of the ballet mistress, she was dressed, coifed and made up in a few minutes without that she was fully aware of what was happening. The world around her no longer seemed to exist as if suddenly a veil had been lifted between her and reality. While the small group of women bustled around her, her eyes were focused on the wall mirror where she felt the strength from her Guardian. She didn't see him, but she knew he was there. His harmonious voice whispered endlessly in her head soothing words of comfort and encouragement. The terror that had begun to invade her disappeared immediately as she sensed his presence at her side. She had nothing to fear, her Angel was watching over her.  
Before the departure of _Madame_ Giry and her troupe, Christine asked that a great cup of chamomile tea was brought to her. Several minutes later, she sat on the chair near the mirror, sipping with caution her tisane in which she had added honey, cinnamon, lemon and ginger. It was an infusion with a rather unpleasant taste, but the Angel had explained her that it helped to clear and relax the throat. He had expressly ordered her to drink it before each of their lesson and every time she sang on stage, even if she had a minor role. Also according to his instructions, she had soaked a handkerchief with a few essence drops of cilantro, rosemary, mint and eucalyptus which she breathed the tonic whiffs that freed her respiratory tract down to her lungs and also helped to soothe her anxiety.  
There remained only a handful of minutes before the curtain's rise, but Christine wasn't afraid. Her Guardian was at her side and would not leave her. She listened quietly to his voice humming and whispering sweet melodies in her head. Sustained by this divine and mystical song, she closed her eyes and forsook the world of Men to immerse herself in the Realm of Music with which she became one.  
-"Five minutes before curtain time, Miss Daaé," the stage manager warned, knocking at her door.  
Christine stood up, confident and serene, before approaching the mirror of which she touched the polished surface with reverence and affection.  
-"It is time, my Angel of Music. Reveal to Mortals the beauty of the Music of Heaven," her Maestro declared, his voice filled with admiration and insurance.  
Happy and relieved to hear his blessing, she smiled, then left the room with a calm and graceful pace as if she was flying blithely among the cherubim. Tonight she would not sing for emperors, ministers and other Parisian bourgeois, but for her Angel and her father, whose love she felt deep in her heart.

It was a triumph! The audience applauded and cheered Christine for more than fifteen minutes without stopping to throw flowers on the stage. In tears, the young diva didn't seem to be aware of the place where she was, nor what was happening to her. Since she had get on stage, she had drifted on the wave of the music, feeling and living every note and sound that had arisen in the room. Exhausted, but elated, she made several bows to thank the audience while her eyes were fixed on the ceiling painted with dozens of angels singing and dancing in the clouds to the glory of music. Closing her eyes to chase the tears that blurred her sight, she softly whispered a thank-you to her guardian. Throughout the performance, she had felt him at her side, his voice humming in her ears and his grace wrapping her with benevolence.  
The curtain finally fell while Christine seemed to leave the ecstasy where she was immersed during the performance. The whole company approached to congratulate her, but suddenly her face grew pale and she swayed before collapsing in the extended arms of _Monsieur_ Mercier. _Madame_ Giry instantly hurried near the girl whose lashes fluttered over her pale cheeks. She ordered the _répétiteur_ to carry her immediately in the main dressing-room normally reserved for the leading soprano of the Opera, that is to say, _Signora_ La Carlotta, but given her absence, it was vacant. Mr. Mercier settled the girl comfortably on the couch while _Madame_ put a pillow under her head and covered her barely dressed figure with a long shawl.  
-"Sir, could you fetch the doctor, please," she asked, fanning Christine's face.  
-"_Évidemment_," he obeyed before leaving with long stride.  
In front of the dressing-room's door, a crowd of onlookers had formed and from which it suddenly emerged an elegant and charming young man, the _Vicomte_ Raoul de Chagny. He rushed in and knelt at the feet of the divan to take Christine's inert hand he clasped gently. Contemplating her lovely sleeping face, he saw small beads of sweat on her pale forehead. He drew his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped her feverish face carefully, delighting to feel her soft skin under his fingers.  
With a mysterious smile, Raoul mused about the sly and unusual happenings that fate could scheme. He never would have thought that one day he would see his little Lotte, and even less in circumstances as triumphant and fabulous. His heart was still beating with euphoria after the trouble and joy he had experienced when he had recognized the young soprano who sang with so perfect fervor and grace that the public had remained stunned. When he came to the Opera, the Viscount had noticed that the audience was usually noisy and dissipated; a dull murmur was still hovering in the room while the spectators were more interested in exchanging gossip than focusing on the show. But that evening, the auditors had turned silent, stunned, mesmerized by this frail, innocent and sublime _Marguerite_ who intoned all the accents of human joy and suffering as if she felt them for the first time in her existence. Transported by the violence and the frenzy of the emotions that the girl exalted by her glorious singing, the crowd lived and suffered with her every upheaval assailing her soul.  
Of the whole assembly, Raoul was probably the most amazed and suffocated by the unsuspected splendor that was revealed to the world. During all those years, he had kept in memory the soft and melodious tone of her childlike voice as she hummed the cheerful nursery rhymes Father Daaé played on his violin. She was no longer the delicate cherub he remembered, but a beautiful Seraph which blazed of divine light and glory. Her voice made believe that a heavenly angel got lost on Earth and wept over the miseries of mankind. His heart pounding and tears in his eyes, he had jumped up of his seat to cheer the young woman, clapping with euphoria and cheering until he choked. When the curtain had fallen, he had rushed out of his box, glimpsing the two directors who welcomed the talent they had discovered, before rushing on stage where he saw Christine fainting into the arms of the stage manager who carried her behind the scenes. Following the crowd of onlookers, he elbowed out of the way everyone to get to the dressing-room, carefree of the curious looks and insults thrown at him, worrying only to see the singer whose seraphic voice had stolen his reason.  
His eyes filled with admiration and happiness, Raoul gazed thoughtfully at the sleeping form of his former girlfriend, according his childhood memories to the feminine contours he discovered. She always seemed as innocent and youthful, but her appearance now was that of a radiant woman. Her girl's simple features had refined, enriched and magnified into a delicate and harmonious geometry suggesting that the great _Michelangelo_ himself had carved her face in the finest pink marble. Her glorious curls rested lazily on the red velvet pillow and flowed gracefully over her white shoulder. She was perfect! Elated and fascinated by the angelic appearance that stretched in front of him, he squeezed her thin hand, and then kissed her slender fingers with admiration before stroking her pink and warm cheek tenderly.  
At this display, Madam Giry was outraged to see this young noble taking advantage of the unconsciousness of a girl to touch her. Straightening up with a stern and angry look, she approached the boy that she pushed with a firm grip to take his place at the girl's bedside. Even though he was the patron of the Opera, this didn't entitle him to abuse artists without the slightest embarrassment, or impunity.  
-"_Monsieur_, I must object! Show a little restraint, please! Your title doesn't give you all the rights!" she lectured, kneeling before pulling the shawl over Christine's bare shoulders.  
The Viscount rose hastily with an ashamed and embarrassed air, his cheeks reddened and his eyes widened. What a fool! He must have look like a horrible libertine by jumping so eagerly on this poor fainted young lady.  
-"No, no, no, _Madame_ Giry! It's not at all what you believe," he defended himself under the accusing and suspicious eyes of the ballet mistress. "This is Christine…" he exclaimed, his finger pointing excitedly at the girl. "Well, I mean Miss Daaé… I know… or rather, I knew her when we were children," he stammered awkwardly, brushing a nervous hand through his hair.  
_Madame_ had an amused smile at the spectacle of this young nobleman who tried to defend himself with as much embarrassment as excitement. His sudden confusion showed that he was sincere, which reassured her. As she straightened to speak to the _Vicomte_, loud voices were suddenly heard from the threshold. In the doorway stood the doctor of the Opera followed by the two directors who were trying to contain the crowd gathered in front of the dressing-room that they closed with difficulty. The ballet mistress stepped aside to let the doctor examine the singer, and then she was beckoned by Mr. Firmin.  
-"How is she? Will she be able to talk with the spectators, because they are getting impatient of her absence," he asked, indicating the door he almost feared to see give way under the blows of the crowd gathered in the hallway.  
-"This is apparently not severe. She just fainted from the intensity of emotion," she reassured.  
Behind her, Christine suddenly began to cough while the doctor made her breath smelling salts to wake her. Raoul soon squatted beside her and took her hand gently as if it was made of delicate crystal. Her eyelids opened and their eyes met in one second where a thousand confused emotions jostled in their heart and mind. When she realized who stood before her, Christine took fright, remembering perfectly the command of her Maestro. In the silence, the atmosphere of the room was transformed suddenly as if a shadow of which she was the only conscious hovered around them. Instinctively, she recognized the presence of her Angel, which appeased her, but her relief was short lived. She feared he would misunderstand the situation if he saw her in Raoul's company and decided to leave her altogether, annoyed by her unceasing disobedience and insolent deception. She had to find a solution to dismiss the Viscount without hurting him and without displeasing to her Guardian.  
-"Who are you, _Monsieur_?" she murmured, feigning ignorance.  
-"_Mademoiselle_, I am the little boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf," he confessed naively after dropping an ardent kiss on the lady's fingers.  
Christine stared in disbelief the young man before turning her puzzled look on the doctor on whom she bestowed a smile, then on _Madame_ Giry and then on Raoul again. With a nonchalant gesture, she withdrew her hand from his grasp and regarded him like she had never seen him, then laughed softly. She was soon imitated by the doctor and her instructor. His cheeks blushing like two poppies, Raoul stood up with dignity, despite his embarrassment.  
-"_Mademoiselle_, I suppose that you have totally forgotten me. You see me sorry, but if you allow me to talk to you in particular, perhaps you would remember the friendship we have shared in our childhood," he suggested, controlling his trouble and shyness.  
-"Perhaps, sir… but later, _je vous prie_, when I'll feel better," she insisted in a voice weak and tired.  
-"_Oui, oui_, _Mademoiselle_ is quite right! She needs some rest and calmness!" the physician ordered, standing up. _Messieurs les Directeurs_, could you take away this young eager suitor and I would also ask you to clear the hallway of all intruders crowded there. I need a moment of tranquility to treat this young lady!"  
At a sign of the doctor, _Madame_ Giry undertook to lead the three stunned men to the door where they were swiftly drive back in the hall among the hectic and animated guests before the door was closed on their nose.  
-"Well, it would appear she is in very capable hands," muttered Moncharmin smoothing the ends of his mustache with an irked look.  
When they turned to the audience, they were assailed by questions about this new diva. Where was she from? Who was she? Why such a talent had been hidden to the _Tout-Paris_ for so long? Despite the relentless protests from the throng of spectators who wanted to meet the girl, the administrators begged everyone to gather in the _Grand Foyer_ where the young singer would soon join them to meet all their instances. While the crowd walked away in a continuous uproar, Raoul lagged behind to gaze dreamily at the closed door behind which hid his childhood friend, then after a long sigh, he turned away to join the rest of the guests at the foyer.

When the silence was finally heard in the dressing room, the doctor carefully examined the girl, taking her throbbing pulse, touching her feverish forehead, listening to her rapid breathing while _Madame_ Giry bustled around the room in search of an evening-dress for Christine who wore a simple white threadbare tunic she had donned for the final act of the prison in _Faust_. During these few minutes, the singer didn't utter a word and didn't move a muscle as if she was paralyzed. Her head tilted back against the sofa, her eyes immobile and absent were attached to the wall on which was carved the bas-relief of a cherub holding a lyre. Among her incoherent and tormented thoughts, a sweet melody that she was the only one to hear rose quietly as a lullaby coming to calm and reassure her. Then, amid the celestial notes, the Voice of the Angel appeared and sang a few words of praise and comfort she greeted with a smile content and elated.  
While the physician was rummaging through his bag to find a sedative to relieve the young woman, he suddenly heard her exhausted and peaceful sigh. When he looked up, he saw that she had closed her eyes and her stiff body had relaxed on the couch. He put his hand to her forehead fresh again, listened to her serene breathing and pressed her wrist where the pulse beat slowly as if her heart had never known the slightest turbulence. Ignoring by what miracle she had so brutally pacified, yet fully satisfied with her condition, he shrugged and packed his tools.  
-"She seems to be doing for the better," he explained to _Madame_, straightening. "It was probably a temporary turmoil caused by the fatigue, anxiety and excitement of the show. After all, she had never sung with such splendor and excitement, or lived as grand a triumph. This is perfectly sufficient to impress and overwhelmed a frail woman. Let her rest a few minutes before throwing her into the pit with all these pranks," he concluded with a half-bitter smile.  
-"Thank you, Dr. Dumont," she announced, shaking the hand he offered her.  
At these words, he headed for the door and gave one last touched and concerned look to the fragile figure asleep on the couch before leaving the room, letting the two women alone. At the sound of the closing lock, Christine opened her eyes, ran her palm on her forehead, then sat properly on the seat while _Madame_ was watching with a caring smile. Then she came to the desk where she picked up a small object that she brought to the girl.  
-"You sang beautifully. He is pleased with you," she said, offering her the gift.  
Without understanding to whom the ballet mistress referred, Christine gently took the beautiful red rose she extended to her, frowning when she noticed a long black satin ribbon tied to the thornless stem. Lost in thought, she contemplated the magnificent crimson petals while her fingers absently smoothed the end of the tie, wondering about the identity of the admirer who had sent her a token so romantic and delicate of his affection. Could it be Raoul? However, she doubted it. Knowing the young man, he would have opted for an opulent bouquet of dozens of different flowers instead of a simple and pure rose. The Angel had told her several months earlier that a language and symbolism existed around the flowers and they were often sent as an encrypted and hidden message. She remembered clearly that the red rose represents passionate love and it was formerly also used to announce a secret rendezvous. Had she a mysterious lover who invited her to a clandestine meeting to declare his love and court her? However, the dull black ribbon puzzled her, since she associated it more with grief than love. She remembered well the portrait of her deceased father that Madam Valérius had surrounded with a black band in the days that followed the burial. What kind of person could choose to associate the symbol of passion with the one of suffering? Was it a way to reveal the ambiguity of a fiery, but tortured desire? It was certainly a versatile man whose heart was saddened by the ineffable joys and nightmarish torments of love as if he felt emotions that were forbidden to him and that he had to repress.  
After a few minutes, Christine was drawn from her thoughts by _Madame_ Giry who spoke emphatically. Rising her eyes from the crimson flower, she saw the ballet mistress standing by the wardrobe where she pulled out a shimmering midnight blue dress woven of veil, lace, silk and pearls.  
-"You will be sublime in that dress," she announced while Christine approached, stars in her eyes.  
When she revealed the garment to the girl, _Madame_ realized how much the Phantom had exquisite and distinguished taste. He wanted nothing less than perfection. Several months ago, he had sent her a note explaining that he wanted to order a dress from the costume department, specifying exactly the precise size and materials that were to be purchased to make the garment. Numerous sketches, drawings and patterns accompanying the letter to detail the shape and appearance he was looking for. Each night after the departure of the seamstresses, he came to inspect the dress and judged the progress and quality of the work, not hesitating to leave a message to show his displeasure or the changes he wanted to make.  
After a month of constant labor, the dress that came out of the workshops was a real jewel, worthy of an empress. Fully satisfied with the finished work, the Phantom had retrieved his property and deposited in its place a thank note along with a considerable sum of money to compensate the inconvenience and additional costs caused by his request. It was needless to say that _Madame_ Giry had silenced the name of the petitioner of this strange handiwork that already aroused enough curiosity, speculation and gossip from the costume designers. It wasn't the first time that a mysterious benefactor commanded from their services a dress specifically for one or another artist of the Opera, but never had such secrecy surrounded this type of demand. Nobody knew anything and even the little Meg, who knew all the gossip and confidences of the Opera, ignored everything about that dark client. Despite these unresolved enigmas, the workers made no objection when they received an additional premium with their payment at the end of the week and this new anecdote was simply added to the many others that the Palace had.  
Before the show, _Madame_ had received a note from the Opera Ghost stating that had left the dress in the wardrobe of the main dressing-room where she was to take Christine after the concert so she can dress as befits a bright goddess. After a few minutes, the girl left the boudoir, draped in a beautiful cascade of blue silk and lace shimmering of the brilliance of dozens of pearls and iridescent crystals. The beauty and grace that came from her at that moment would have made green with envy Aphrodite in person. Still stunned by what she was living, the singer sat in silence at the dressing table, while Madame came behind her to finish lacing the bodice of the dress. Absently, Christine took a hairbrush to comb her long, unruly hair, her wandering eyes again posing on the beribboned rose before noticing near the mirror an ebony box carved with her name in an elegant, but irregular handwriting. Putting down her comb, she lifted the lid with curiosity. She put her fingers to her mouth with a dazed gasp when she discovered, on a black velvet fabric, a resplendent pair of earrings made of diamond in the shape of star and twenties of hairpins also crimped with a large shimmering star. _Madame_ gasped and turned pale at the sight of the rich and sumptuous ornaments he had offered her.  
-"_Doux Jésus _!" she exclaimed, with one hand on her heart to calm its palpitations.  
-"Who sends me all these presents, _Madame_? Don't hide it to me, I'm sure you know him!" Christine urged, observing her through the mirror.  
-"My darling, I gave my word to not betray his identity," she eluded. "Be patient. He will appear in due time… when he feels ready and worthy to meet you," she comforted before pressing her shoulder amicably.  
Without another word, the ballet mistress took the casket, then adorned Christine's hair and ears with the precious jewels, making her even more majestic than she already was. Christine observed her reflection with the odd impression that it was not her face she saw, but that of someone else. From where came this amazing and brilliant spark that blazed in her pupils, this blazing fire that painted her cheeks and this passionate carmine that shone on her lips? Lost in her gaze in the mirror, she heard a melodious and gentle Voice whisper her name with tenderness in her ear. Instantly, her eyes explored the room in search of her Angel who called her at his side without her instructor notice it.  
-"You look like an angel," _Madame_ Giry exposed, putting the finishing touches to the girl's hairstyle.  
Christine's eyes widened at these words that seemed to echo her thoughts as if the ballet mistress could read her mind. Mistaking the confusion written on her face, _Madame_ Giry warmly patted her arm.  
-"Don't worry, everything will be fine."  
At these words, she smiled at her through the mirror, and then turned to leave, but she was held on the threshold.  
-"Madam, could you bring me something to eat before I joined the audience?" the singer asked swiftly.  
-"Of course," she nodded before leaving.  
Christine jumped up from her chair, ran to the door against which she pinned her ears to listen to the footsteps walk away from the dressing-room. When she was sure that the preceptor was gone, she left the room and ran down the corridor as fast as her opulent dress would allow, taking a long detour to avoid the _Grand Foyer_ where all the guests had gathered. After several minutes of wandering, she went down a dark and narrow spiral staircase until she reached a heavy wooden door opening onto the small chapel of the Opera. She hurried into the cramped room without even bothering to close the door behind her, eager to hear the voice of her Guardian.

After lighting several candles around the room with the matches left to this effect, she knelt before the rudimentary iron altar dusty and tarnished by the passage of years over which hung the portraits of loved ones related to workers of the Opera, among whom was her father. The fragile flame of the candle she kindled on the pedestal revealed the black and white image of Gustave Daaé frozen for eternity in his youth and beauty. A sad smile awoke on the girl's face as she contemplated the sparkling eyes and charming smile of her father immortalized forever as if time had stopped and he was still at her side to guard her.  
Blowing her match, she sat on her heels and bowed her head humbly awaiting the arrival of her Angel in the stillness of the crypt, away from the din and effervescence of the crowd. The silence lasted only a few of minutes when she sensed a warm breath caress her hair and the room air vibrate and whisper around her to the rhythm of a slow and melancholy lullaby. Over the months, she had understood that these two signs showed the nearby presence of her Maestro whose mind was always wreathed of music.  
-"Christine…" the Voice whispered in a gentle, almost melodious breath. "You were divine, my flaming Seraphim. In Heaven or on Earth, ever more absolute perfection was heard by immortals or men. The angels wept tonight!"  
At these words, Christine brought a hand to her heart whose beating panicked, upset by the fervent and generous praise of her severe Teacher.  
-"Thank you, my Angel! Tonight, I have sung for you," she confessed shyly, her cheeks reddened by the confusion of being the target of so much praise. "I gave you my soul and I'm dead."  
-"Your soul is beautiful, my child, and I thank you. There is no emperor who has received such a gift. You are undeniably worthy to live among the archangels," he announced in a grave tone filled with pride.  
The diva's head straighten up to this mysterious proclamation, ignoring whether she should understand a hidden meaning in this message. Was it the promise that soon they would be reunited and she could finally stay with him? Several times over the previous weeks, she had been tempted to beg him to take her with him, away from this world she didn't belong. She wanted to forget this reality full of indifference, selfishness, cruelty and contempt to immerse herself in the luminous and musical realm where he lived among the stars and cherubs. After the intoxication she had experienced during her triumph on stage, she wanted more than ever to abandon her mortal links that chained her to the banality and materiality of existence to soar into the Heavens to join the arms of her beloved Guardian.  
These past months had been enough to teach her that without him, she had no existence. She was really alive only during those daily fleeting moments while they were together and sung with the same voice. Their continued separation was becoming intolerable, so that during the countless hours he wasn't at her side, she had the impression to struggle constantly for her survival as a flower whose roots were torn from the fertile soil. Strangely, deep in her heart, she knew that he too couldn't bear this invisible, but real, barrier that divided them and he was eagerly waiting for the day when all the masks would fall and where they would be reunited eternally. It didn't matter whether he was immortal or not, just like her, he was unable to resist the powerful, obsessive and fatal grip of love whose strength overthrew all obstacles and transgress all rules.  
Christine casted her pensive eyes over the walls of the small alcove where many frescoes of haloed angels with golden wings were painted. A hopeful smile lit up her face while the presence of her Guardian turned out stronger than ever, as if he were sitting right beside her. Since the first day they met, she had always feared to see him go, tired and frustrated by her juvenile indiscipline and her human futility. However, she knew now that her doubts had no reason to be. A unique link, mystical and intangible had developed between them during these long months of learning, which it seemed impossible to break. By offering his teaching to the girl, the Angel probably hadn't suspected that he could fall in love with a mortal and he would end up needing her as much as she needed him. Deities such as Humans were no match against the relentless temptations of love, before which all bowed with humility and respect.

From the top of the narrow spiral staircase, Meg called discreetly her friend's name without getting an answer; however, she guessed a faint glow cast by the flickering candles of the chapel. She knew that Christine was one of the few inhabitants of the Opera to still visit the tiny crypt to find peace and pray the soul of her father. After the tumult and the turmoil that the performance had created among the spectators, it seemed obvious that she had taken refuge in this quiet and peaceful place where no one would think to search her. With her flexible ballerina's stride, she came down the abrupt stone steps and when she reached the ajar heavy door, from which escaped a thread of golden light, she heard the soft murmur of a melodious and masculine voice humming Christine's name. This was the second time in less than a month that she caught the girl locked in the company of a man, which whetted her curiosity and suspicion. Meg was determined to make her friend confess the identity of this mysterious stranger that she hid fiercely and who seemed to be none other than her singing teacher.  
Silently, the dancer pushed the door and saw Christine sitting alone on the floor, surrounded by a vaporous cloud of blue silk and satin, bright stars shimmering at her ears and in her long curly hair. She looked so lonely and vulnerable amid the austere room that Meg had difficulty to believe that this was the same person who had sung with vehemence and passion to a hypnotized audience of bourgeois some minutes ago.  
-"Christine!" Meg exclaimed, sitting on the ground near the girl. "Really you were perfect! But why did you hide such a talent for so long? What is your secret? Who is your great and mysterious tutor?" she insisted enthusiastically, holding the hands of the young diva who offered her a warm and embarrassed smile.  
Without a word the girl turned her head towards the angel fresco as if she asked him for advice, then she looked down with serious and confusion.  
-"_Je t'en prie_, Christine, trust me! I promise to not divulge anything of what you will reveal to me within these walls," Meg assured.  
The singer hesitated a few seconds before complying with the request of her friend, convinced that her guardian would have reprimanded her if he didn't want Meg was put into confidence. Moreover, she couldn't bear to lie to the girl that she considered as her little sister. Her Angel would understand her gesture; otherwise it meant that he was not as merciful that he claimed.  
-"_Marguerite_… When I was younger, my father told me the legend of the Angel of Music who visits men whose heart is pure enough to receive and hear his teaching," she explained, looking tenderly the mural before her. "Before he died, he promised me he would send me the Angel when he would be in heaven. My father died, Meg… and I had been visited by the Angel of Music. He taught me his art, gave me a spark of his glory and gave me wings! When I feel alone, scared and sad, he sings to me in my dreams… in my head… in my dressing-room… and in this chapel!" she murmured in a dreamy and entranced voice as if she was in another world far from the Opera and her friend.  
-"Christine, do you really think the spirit of your father speak from paradise and teaches you music?" the dancer doubted with a skeptical pout.  
-"Who else, Meg? What other being could have shown me such wonders and given me so much grace when I no longer believed in myself? I owe him my voice and when I sing, I know he is always by my side… he lives in me… He, the unseen Genius!"  
Frowning, Meg took Christine's chin gently in her hand and forced her to look away from the paint that seemed to hypnotize her.  
-"You are very mysterious and dreamy, and it's not like you! Such stories don't occur in reality," she worried, scrutinizing the luminous face of her comrade.  
-"You think that I dream?"  
-"I don't know, Christine! If it's a dream, I just hope your awakening won't be too painful and nightmarish!"  
Meg chose to silence her doubts and fears in order to not alarm the girl and let her continue to live these moments of bliss. Christine was sometimes so naive and innocent that any malevolent individual could abuse her candor in an attempt to grant her favors and such unscrupulous characters swarmed within the walls of the Opera.  
-"Come, Christine. We better join the others before _maman _puts the Opera upside down to find us," Meg announced, taking the girl's hand to leave the cold chamber.  
They left the tiny room, not without that Christine gave a last look at the altar where stood the portrait of her father haloed with paintings of angel and dozens of candles.  
Leading friendly the young singer by the hand, Meg took her back to the dressing-room where her mother awaited, upset to have discovered the deserted room on her return. Christine apologized for her disagreeable behavior, explaining that she had felt a great need for peace and comfort from her father that she had been praying at the chapel. With a resigned grimace, _Madame _forgave her harmless misconduct, before to show her a plate of fruit and a big cup of tea that the girl watched with a hungry look. After eating several quarters of apples, grapes and large sips of tea, the ballet mistress escorted Christine to the main foyer where the guests had gathered, eager to meet and congratulate this new and sublime talent of the Academy of Music.

**X X X X**

After suffering during almost an hour the flattery and the verbiage of the obsequious spectators, Christine was finally able to get back in the sanctuary of her petite dressing-room, far from the ostentation and hypocrisy of the worldliness. In her dream of becoming a talented opera singer, she had not considered the official and ceremonial part of the profession demanding that she showed herself and spoke to the public to promote the interests of the Opera. She was so accustomed to the loneliness that she had felt assaulted and uncomfortable to be suddenly thrown under the spotlight amid these unknown sycophants whose intentions sometimes seemed doubtful. She hated the adulation and notoriety associated with the role of _prima donna_ and only wanted the contentment and the joy of singing on stage to honor the memory of her beloved father and thank her Angel for having chosen her. It was with pleasure that she left that part of frivolity and pride for La Carlotta who was fond of it.  
Accompanied by _Madame_ Giry, Christine entered the small room where a gas-jet was burning feebly of which she turned the valve to increase the flame. A flickering and flamboyant gleam flooded the modest room allowing them to see their reflections in the large mirror that decorated the opposite wall. Taking a few steps in the middle of the room, the girl was able to see herself for the first time in her new and sumptuous finery, her hair and her ears sparkling with diamonds. She remained stunned by this image that didn't seem to be hers. Her appearance wasn't any more the one of a banal and mediocre ingénue, but of a majestic and radiant princess. She no longer seemed to be the same, but she didn't know if this change pleased her.  
Quickly, her gaze was drawn to the writing desk on which was laying the same red rose with a black ribbon among the scattered and scribbled writing paper. Picking up the flower, she turned to stare at_ Madame_, tacitly begging her to reveal the name of her benefactor. However, the ballet mistress only looked down, shaking her head in denial. With a weary and frustrated sigh, the singer sat at her vanity and began to wipe the makeup that masked her face. Immediately, her instructor came to help and carefully removed the hairpins scattered in her opulent curly mane.  
Having untied the lace of her bodice with the assistance of her instructor, Christine drew a heavy curtain that concealed a rudimentary boudoir where there was a wide screen, a small wardrobe and a toilet case. When she walked around the curtain, her attention was immediately caught by a rich outfit carefully draped on a hanger. It was a long and sumptuous white negligee of fine cotton and lace assorted to a light and elegant silk dressing gown. Approaching the garment, she slipped her fingertips on the fabric as soft as flower petals to make sure she was not dreaming, but this sublime costume was perfectly real. With a radiant smile, she withdrew her beautiful dress to fit into the velvety delicacy of the silk shirt that intimately touched her silhouette like a caress. Having tied the fabric ribbons attached to the back of the dress to tighten it around her waist, she put on her shoulders the loose robe that wrapped around her like the sweet and protective wings of an angel. She had never felt more at ease and comfortable than in this simple and luxurious suit as if she was surrounded by a cloud of feathers.  
As Christine got out of the boudoir, _Madame_ Giry stifled a gasp of amazement as she discovered her fully dressed in white and flimsy silk. She was beautiful, radiant, virginal, but at the same time seductive, sensual and irresistible. This amazing dress managed to preserve as much of Christine's youthful innocence than to outline and heighten the charms of her blossoming femininity. Suddenly, she realized that the Phantom's feelings towards his _protégée_ were not only professional and paternal, but of another nature much more powerful and tragic of which she feared the consequences. She knew he had meticulously organized this evening in the smallest details to offer Christine the triumph that she hoped for so long, but she didn't know what other purposes the Specter planned for the young singer. Fearing his wrath and vengeance if she dared to oppose his plans, she preferred to keep quiet and let events unfold without lowering her vigilance. The Ghost had sometimes violent and ruthless reactions when his desires were not satisfied. Although Christine had nothing to fear from him, the other occupants of the Opera weren't shielded from his wrath. _Madame_ recited mentally a prayer for this night didn't end in tragedy.  
-"Do you need anything else, Christine?" she asked with a pleasant, but worried smile.  
-"No, thank you, madam."  
-"In this case, I'll leave you to your dreams. Don't stay up too late," she warned before leaving the room.  
Alone at last, the girl went to her mirror that she gazed exultantly. Her hand rose to the glass that she caressed with reverence and affection as if it was a relic, and then, leaning timidly, she kissed the cold, hard surface.  
-"Thank you, my Angel…" she murmured.  
At these words, a warm breath surrounded her, echoing her name as her Guardian hummed melodiously as he always did to call her at his side. A sad, sweet smile appeared on her face as she leaned her forehead and her palm against the mirror.  
-"I will wait you as long as it takes," she promised with respect and solemnity.  
In response to her oath, the melancholy music of a violin rose and replaced the Voice whispers in her ears. Happy and soothed to be with her Protector, Christine immersed herself in this languid song and drifted along the sinuous and celestial meanders of the seraphic notes.

Hidden in the shadow of a doorway, Raoul was nervously awaiting the departure of the ballet mistress he had seen entering the dressing-room with Christine. After an interminable silence that put a strain on his patience, he finally saw _Madame_ leave the room and walk down the long corridor dimly lit, and then he heard the heels of her boots resounding on the steep stairs. He felt stupid to play the voyeur like this, however, if he wanted to have the opportunity to talk to Christine in _tête-à-tête _without all Paris knows it, he should exercise discretion and make some transgressions to decorum. Waiting a few more minutes to make sure that _Madame_ Giry wouldn't return, the Viscount left the shadow and approached the dressing-room. As he was about to knock on the door, he seemed to hear the rustle of a violin through the walls, however, the distant chant stopped as soon as he hit three discreet knocks on the panel. No sound came from the room in which he entered shamelessly, although he hasn't been invited in.  
From the threshold, Raoul saw the girl sitting at her dressing table, beautifully dressed in a sumptuous robe of pure white. She seemed pensive and distant, her mind absorbed by a red rose with a black ribbon that she handled and brushed with her lovely fingers. The heart of the young nobleman missed a beat in view of an apparition so charming and angelic.  
-"Little Lotte let her mind wander…" he recited, pulling from her thoughts Christine who turned her head toward him, a puzzled and amazed expression illuminating her face. "Little Lotte thought: am I fonder of dolls ... or of goblins ... or shoes?"  
-"Raoul!" she smiled as he walked into the room.  
-"You remember me, now!" he chuckled.  
Christine blushed with embarrassment at this point, reminding her how haughtily she had received him before.  
-"I've never forgotten you, Raoul!"  
-"Me too," he admitted kneeling in front of her. "It's been so long!"  
He tenderly took Christine's hand that he kissed before leaning to hug her. After an initial burst of surprise, she replied timidly at his embrace.  
-"You sang like an angel tonight," he whispered in the hollow of her ear.  
When he moved away, she looked down in embarrassment, remembering that her Guardian was still present and must observe them with an irritated air.  
-"Thank you…"  
-"You're welcome. And now, we go to supper!" he invited with a jovial laugh full of cheerfulness.  
-"No, Raoul! I can't," she refused, but he already got up and walked towards the door.  
-"Don't worry; I shan't keep you up late! You must change and I must order my carriage! Two minutes, Little Lotte!" he insisted.  
-"Raoul, no! Wait! Things have changed…"  
Her useless protests vanished into nothingness as he disappeared into the hallway, the door closing with a click behind him. Caught off guard, she rushed in pursuit of the Viscount to make him see reason. At the moment she grabbed the door handle, a supernatural and cold wind burst across the room and blew out the candles she had lit before, and the gas-jets also extinguished without any reason. A single lamp hung next to the wall mirror continued to burn with a feeble light, plunging the room into a strange and disturbing darkness.

Suddenly, the powerful and tumultuous roar of an organ thundered through the walls from the depths of the Opera. Christine turned around with a start and searched the gloom of her dressing room where the smoke of candles formed whorls that encircled her ghostly. A shiver ran through her and froze her blood in her veins when she sensed an extraordinary and unreal presence invade the room. Then she heard his Voice, glaring, rough, fulminating, snarling, roaring…


	4. Chapter 4 : The Phantom Of The Opera

**A/N: **Dear readers, once again I must apologize for the endless delay in my story. Work, work, always work... But finally, I managed to finish a new chapter that I can finally give you. However, I must admit that I'm not the most satisfied of it. I was very eager to relate Erik's point of view about the past events, but the writing has proved to be quite laborious and it seems to me that the final result is rather clumsy. Anyway, I let you judge it by yourself. Thank you very much for your infinite patience and for your kind reviews that are much appreciated. I would also like to welcome the new readers who have chosen to follow this story (make yourselves at home!) Hoping that you will spend pleasant minutes skimming through these few lines, I remain, dear readers, your obedient servant... Taedium Vitae

* * *

**~ Chapter 4 ~**  
**– The Phantom of the Opera –**

* * *

Alone in the darkness of her dressing room where thundered the majestic and powerful chords of an invisible organ, Christine remained petrified by terror. On several occasions, she had endured the austere criticisms, discontents and reproof of her Angel about her singing abilities and her moral comportment. During his lessons, he was a strict, demanding and inflexible professor without becoming cruel and hateful. He knew how to force his student to search deep in herself the smallest spark of her resources in order to give the best of her potential, and despite the sometimes laborious hours of work, her efforts were always rewarded with the prodigious and unthinkable progress of her skills. It was only thanks to the passion and rigor of her Guardian that she had been granted this special and unique privilege. But along that drastic part of their relationship, the Angel also showed her recognition and generosity. Like a father, he took care of her welfare, comforted her when she was sad, sang and played the violin to remind her that she wasn't alone in these moments of pain. She had known severity and peace with him; however, she had never experienced the anger and rage he suddenly revealed with the sound of his voice soiled by bitterness and contempt.

-"Poor insolent girl! Your childish attitude disappoints me dreadfully!"

-"Forgive me, Maestro! I couldn't do otherwise," she defended herself, searching the room with a terrified look.

The Voice seemed to come from all sides at the same time, filling with his fulminant tone her small room whose walls seemed to tremble in this tumult.

-"_Vraiment_? I'm getting tired of your little deceit game! You try my patience! I still wonder why I'm wasting my time with a so unruly child!" he spat disdainfully.

-"Raoul is my friend and it's been so long since I haven't seen him! Besides, I didn't want to be disagreeable toward the Opera's new patron."

-"Oh, I know he is your friend! A friend who takes you in his arms, smiles to you, invites you to dinner… kisses your hair… takes you to a walk in a park under the bright sun… In the end, he will abduct you and turn you away from music; you will waste your talent, lose your soul and cry in the night's dark hours for your Angel to return at your side and to give you back your voice. But I will not come back, Christine!"

Throughout his speech, his rancor seemed to weaken and his accusing words softened to become a melancholy murmur filled with regret, as if he had already experienced the dark and gloomy future he described and deplored.

-"I'm just looking for some company. Despite your kind and dedicated presence, I feel so lonely at times!"

-"You don't know what loneliness is!" he accused in a grating voice.

Christine frowned at this strange remark. Was it possible that Angels knew abandonment or was he the only one in this case? Had he been dethroned of Heaven for being in love with a human? Perhaps he had been expelled from Paradise because of her, condemned to endure the torments of purgatory to expiate his sin? What did she know in reality of his celestial existence? He had never mentioned the world in which he lived.

-"We always come back to this point, isn't it? This material, mortal and human need to see and touch me!"

-"Is that so wrong?" she exclaimed innocently. "It's in no way voluntary… I tried with all my strength to fight this senseless impulse of my heart, but I never managed to overcome it. I confess it without shame; I yearn to be with you."

Taking courage and galvanized by the virulence of her emotions, Christine finally dared to express with a bold courage that she ignored to possess, the desires that inhabited her soul since he had appeared in her life. She stepped into the room invaded by darkness and stood straight, proud and daring, ready to plead and defend her cause that she considered legitimate.

-"My intentions are pure! I don't care what or who you are, I only wish to thank the being who granted me so much glory, revealed me such splendor… and join the magical and divine kingdom in which he dwells… where music merges with the light… where the Shadow doesn't exist… where Love triumphs over all hatred…

-"Christine… My Angel of Music…" he murmured.

The Voice became soft, melodious and almost sad. He was apparently shocked and overwhelmed by the vehement and passionate confessions of the girl, as if he had never imagined she would dare one day to rise up and challenge him.

-"I gave you my mind blindly during all these months, what I did with joy, because I knew that the gift you would offer me will be beyond all my desires. Yet, despite everything I did to please you, you refuse to give me this simple wish!"

-"You don't know what you are asking me!" he lamented plaintively.

-"I know it perfectly! Please! Let me see you!"

There was a long moment of silence during which the Angel seemed to weigh the request of his _protégée_, seeking to know the sincerity of her words and the trust that he could put in her.

-"Are you ready to renounce to your fears, to your prejudices and to your judgment? Could you accept and understand the difference without fear? Will you see the beauty hidden behind appearances… behind the mask?" he asked in a commanding and categorical tone.

The thunder of the organ had softened to become a rain of crystalline notes among which vibrated the ethereal melody of an enchanted violin. Around her, the atmosphere of the room seemed completely transformed. The cold air was now warm on her skin. The opaque darkness that she had feared shone with a warm golden glow. The acrid smell of candles smoke was replaced by the sweet fragrance of roses.

-"Is this really the prayer you admonished me to fulfill?" he insisted.

-"Yes, my Angel! Don't hide in the shadows any longer and show yourself to the light!"

-"So, come to me! Forget the life you knew before! Believe in me and I will show you all the mysteries of the universe! Succumb to my will… to my music… to my desires! In the peaceful silence of this magical night, our spirits will rise among the shimmering stars and merge in a glorious harmony! Beside me, you will know the most passionate and absolute love! Loneliness, contempt and jealousy will only be sad and distant memories. Let the masks fall… Let the dream begins…"

Her Guardian's sibylline promises had become a haunting litany that called and charmed Christine like a syrupy wine intoxicating the senses and invigorating the soul. Bewitched and inspired by his celestial voice and his seductive words, she walked with a slow and graceful pace to the mirror, unaware of the journey that awaited her, or even her destination. All that mattered was that her Guardian exhorted her to join him.

-"Look beyond the mirror… beyond the mask… I'm there inside!"

As if moved by an invisible force, Christine obeyed to her Maestro and went to the silver glass from which seemed suddenly to arise a thin white glow. Before her incredulous eyes, a dark and indistinct shape stood out in the dim light that intensified with every step she took in its direction. A tiny part of her mind noticed that the organ had regained power and tone to match the divine and intoxicating violin's melody.

-"I am your Angel of Music… Come to me, Angel of Music," the Voice sang to the rhythm of the unreal music to which her soul obeyed without resistance.

Christine walked steadily toward the mirror amid which appeared a face, then a chest and finally a whole silhouette dressed in black and surrounded by a large cloak. The girl's look was inexorably drawn to the flashing and clear eyes of the apparition, shining as two iridescent swamp-light. Without stopping to repeat his irresistible invocation, the reality wavered, muddled, and finally vanished into the shadows of the room to be limited to this single window of light where this imposing character stood. Enthralled by this lament calling her from another world, she walked with confidence and emotion toward this divine being that she finally discovered after all these wonderful and difficult months during which they have learned to know each other without having met. The Angel stretched out his arms in a slow graceful movement and held out his gloved hand to his _protégée_ in order to invite her through the mirror, to join his kingdom where they will both fuse with the music.

Instinctively, she responded to his gesture and the moment her hand should have touch the solidity of the cold and impenetrable mirror, her fingers brushed against the warmth and softness of his thin leather gloves. Slowly, gently, as if they were afraid that this magical moment will disappear if they made a sudden movement, their hand hovered near one another, grazed timidly and then intertwined each other tenderly, never to separate. The Angel's slender fingers closed around her thin palm and, peacefully, he drew her to him, luring her in his domain beyond time and reality. Her senses completely enthralled by the presence of her Guardian, she barely heard the thunderous roar of the _vicomte_ and the pounding of his fists on the locked door. The outside world didn't exist anymore!

Without understanding by what marvel, she went through the mirror, left her small dressing-room and eventually reached a narrow tunnel lined with opulent silver candelabra on which burned dozens of long candles. Their hand still intimately joined, he guided her through the maze of his kingdom, his eyes fixed on the girl's dazzled face. At the end of the corridor, she threw a quick glance over her shoulder and distinguished the interior of her room again illuminated by gas lamps while the candelabra extinguished one after another behind them. Before they crossed the corner of the wall, she caught a glimpse of Raoul who entered in the deserted chamber with a disbelieving and appalled look.

Quickly forgetting the viscount, Christine turned her attention to her Guide who took a torch on the wall to light their way in the dark passages unfolded before them. The Angel's gaze was continually set on his _protégée_, giving no concern of the road they followed as if he knew by heart every stone littering that ancient underground. Side-by-side, they took a long spiral stone staircase leading to the entrance of a large sloping gallery where was expecting a sublime white horse that snorted at their approach. After placing the torch in a bracket on the wall, the Angel left Christine to approach the animal and he flattered its neck before patting its side gently. Immediately, the horse obeyed his master and bowed its head, putting one knee down as if it was bowing to greet the girl. Without fear, she stroked the head of the proud stallion that she had easily recognized. It was _César_, the white horse of the _Prophète_, which she had pampered with candy on numerous occasions. Strangely, she remembered in the early evening having heard workers explain that this beast had disappeared and that it was stolen by the Phantom of the Opera. But she could hardly discuss this coincidence as her Guardian stretched his hands and invited her to sit on the horse. With his help, she sat sidesaddle on the comfortable seat, her opulent gown unfolding on the back of the animal that rose in a swift movement.

With a last look on his muse, the Angel seized the bridle to lead the stallion and its precious rider in the depths of the gallery that opened before them. The darkness reigned in this underground labyrinth, pushed away at regular intervals by the golden glow of a chandeliers set with white candles. Their way down lasted several minutes, during which Christine saw intermittently the dark silhouette of her Maestro in the wake of the flickering lights that barely banished the darkness around. At every corner where they met the candles glare, she was able to contemplate his face that observed her with adoration and kindness as if he couldn't believe they were reunited and he wanted to be sure that she was still at his side. Lulled by the regular horse's swaying and the ceaseless symphony of the organ in the distance, her mind drifted in the mist of dreams, beyond this border where fantasies and reality blurred and mingled, in this place where consciousness didn't know if it was dreaming or living. Her heart filled with joy and hope, she realized with a calm indifference that she was leaving the world of men to join the dreamlike kingdom of her Angel, feeling no regret to escape this earthly existence who had stolen her all those she loved and had left her alone to wander like a shadow in the abyss.

The gentle slope of the tunnel eventually became steeper while she could hear the light and crystalline whisper of water dripping and splashing like on the seashores. The gallery they were following suddenly ended its path in the dark and quiet waves of an underground river along which a makeshift wharf was built. A small black boat similar to a gondola adorned with lanterns and lined with velvet cushions was docked, waiting patiently for its passengers. In the darkness before her, Christine distinguished the distant points of flaming torches clearing a path on these leaden waters whose depths gleamed with a pale blue glow. The fresh air blowing on her face and the distant echo of the rippling water revealed her they stood on the edge of a vast cavern in which she guessed the shadows of huge columns and high arches supporting an imposing stone ceiling. The memory that the _Palais_ _Garnier_ was built on a subterranean mere, called the Lake _Averne_, oddly returned to her mind. Another incongruous coincidence!

As she threw a glance over her shoulder, she saw the candles extinguished as if by magic on the passage they had borrowed, leaving visible only the scattered brightness of the beacons on the lake. Immobilizing the horse near the shore, the Angel stretched out his arms to support and help Christine to dismount. When her feet touched the ground, she found herself face-to-face with her Guardian she could stare for the first time during intense but fleeting seconds. Again, she was amazed by his clear gaze that turned out to be of a fabulous celadon green, shining like two pale emeralds with tints of opal. His face was of an incredible perfection and his finely chiseled lips of an incomparable sensuality. His soothing warmth and his heady scent enveloped her instantly like a cozy and comforting cloud. She had hardly the time to absorb and appreciate this closeness that he was already walking away as if he was frightened by this intimate and carnal contact. After all, the angels didn't know the sense of touch or physical caresses; this should be quite distressing, unsettling and frightening for him.

With a compassionate and tender smile, she followed him to the boat where he helped her to sit at ease among the soft small cushions. He then raised an arm in a severe gesture towards _César_ that reared up with a powerful neigh and left at a gallop to disappear into the darkness of the tunnel, its four horseshoes pounding the stony ground with energy. The Angel climbed into the small gondola that he delivered of its mooring line before catching the oar to push their boat far from shore. The prow cleaved in silence through the black water while Christine watched with amazement the many sparks that seemed to dance magically over the surface, undulating with the imperceptible ripple of the waters. She couldn't tell if these lamps were floating on the waves of the lake or if they flew in the air like fireflies. Gently plunging her hand into the cold liquid, she drew a trickle of shimmering water and imprisoned in her palm a small blue spark, but the soft light ran dry and escaped her, slipping between her fingers, elusive and shy. She turned her gaze to her Guide who still watched her calmly without stopping to row, his dark silhouette overlooking her with its imposing stature. His burning eyes glowed in the dark like two golden stars. Every time they went near a lantern, his wonderful and perfect face was revealed to the girl who tried to memorize its slightest bit before it disappears again into nothingness.

In the stillness of the cave, Christine heard the immutable serenade of the organ swell and roar as they crossed the countless arches and columns that gushed from the water like the giant heads of sea dragons. They finally reached the shore where stood a small pier and she thought for a moment they were back to their starting point, however, she noticed that the environment was different. Behind them, the lights on the lake went out one after another and soon only survived the lanterns of the boat and the pale blue gleam that rose from the waters. When the prow hit the dock, the Angel came down from the barge that he tied to a large iron ring before raising an arm above the lamps that vanished in their turn. Christine feared he would leave her to her fate in the darkness' unfriendly opacity and she straightened up shakily, but soon she felt two strong arms lift her off the boat. Instinctively, she embraced her Guardian's neck and leaned her head against his broad shoulder as he carried her along the shore.

A flood of blinding light burst suddenly in the middle of the night, forcing Christine to close her eyelids to suppress the pain of this cruel and violent assault. After a few steps, her Guide stopped, and then he put her down with immeasurable care, as if she was a fragile porcelain doll, on what she recognized as a couch. Her head sank into a soft velvet pillow and her body relaxed against the cozy upholstery, a strange well-being and an irresistible torpor seizing her irretrievably. With a contented sigh, she tried to open her eyes that blinked and winked several times as they accustomed to the bright light.

Passing her hand over her forehead to make sure she wasn't dreaming, she discovered in front of her a living room nicely furnished and decorated, several candlesticks and a beautiful chandelier cast a soothing golden light. Dozens of beautiful red roses in vases were displayed on the luxurious dark wooden furniture, a few paintings of bucolic landscape hung on the wall, huge libraries sagged under hundreds of old leather books and rich Persian carpets covered the floor. A gigantic piano took up an entire corner of the room and a violin was lying on the gleaming black lid of the instrument. A perfume of jasmine incense permeated the room's fresh air. This very Parisian living-room was strangely contrasting with the fantastic journey she had travelled through this mysterious and dark labyrinth.

Disturbed in her contemplation, her attention was attracted by a slight movement, she turned her head and saw a man who was statically watching her, standing up at the end of the couch. He wore a beige mask that hid the right half of his face, his slicked hair was black as ebony, and his proud posture was intimidating and almost threatening.

-"Who are you? Where is Angel?" she murmured, staring at the stranger whose eyes seemed surprisingly familiar.

The man's visible features contorted as under the blow of an intense sadness, and then his head bowed as he exhaled a heavy and painful sigh. Fear began to invade Christine's members and she looked desperately for her Angel across the room, but he had disappeared just as the enchanting hum of the organ. He had left her in the company of this masked and mute stranger whom she could only imagine the horrible plans.

Frightened, she straightened up on the couch to escape, however, something incredible happened that stole all of her reason. A harmonious and angelic voice she easily recognized resounded in her ears, her face turning instantly in the direction of the melody. Her Guardian has returned. His bright gaze resting lovingly on her, he stood up majestically next to the settee where the stranger had been seconds before. A quiet and sad song flowed from his lips, encouraging the girl to follow him, to turn away from the garish, cold and unfeeling light and to listen to the Music of the Night. Urged by this haunting lament, Christine stood up and walked to her Angel who lured her to approach with a gesture of his hand. Coming forward, she detailed his high silhouette elegantly dressed in a black frock coat and in a red-brown waistcoat with a rose pattern. As she was standing just a few steps from him, she admired with fascination the perfection of his features that she discovered for the first time bathed in bright light. She had never laid eyes on a most sublime portrait, the supreme archetype of masculine beauty. Her arm stretched out to touch his face and make sure he was real, and not an illusion, but the Angel grabbed her wrist with a quick, almost frightened movement, trapping her curious fingers between his gloved hands.

Without stopping to sing and urge her to forget reality, to succumb to her darkest dreams, to surrender to the music, he guided her through the large room, their eyes bonded to one another, indifferent to the world around them. Drinking in his words that she was ready to obey blindly, she followed him with confidence regardless of where he was taking her. Enveloped by the slow and quiet rhythm of his song, they left the living room to enter a dim chamber lit by a few oil lamps, plunging the place in mysterious darkness. At the back of the room sat a large four-poster bed near which raised a huge organ that filled an entire section of wall to the ceiling. As they passed by a large desk whose surface was hidden beneath a mess of books and papers, Christine saw dozens of parchment blackened by musical notes among which were scattered countless drawings and portraits of her. With a shy smile, she blushed, looking down, embarrassed by the undeniable and absolute adoration that his Professor vowed her. Her cheeks reddened further when his words expressed his ardent desire to be with her, to touch her, to love her and to share the sweet intoxication of the Music of the Night. At these words, Christine realized they were near the bed that seemed to invite them to lie in its purple satin sheets, but they sidestepped it and went to the corner of the room.

While the Angel sang the last note of his serenade, they stopped before a heavy fringed curtain that he parted in an almost hesitant gesture to reveal a spacious alcove lined with long candles and hung with diaphanous stole of white silk. In front of Christine was exposed a lifelike mannequin wearing a sumptuous wedding gown. The girl blinked as she believed to be dreaming, but the illusion lasted. Behind the thin veil adorning the head of the false bride, she recognized her own features imitated to perfection, she had the feeling to watch herself in a mirror. Her thoughts panicked and blurred when she understood that her Guardian was declaring her his love and that he had chosen her to become his wife.

This tacit revelation was too much for the exhausted mind of Christine who collapsed in the arms of her protector. Worried by her sudden fainting, he took her tenderly in his arms and relished for a few moments the precious feeling of her breath on his throat, the slight pressure of her head against his shoulder, the warmth and weight of her body clasped against his chest. With a serene and slow tread, he went to his bed where he laid her carefully before wrapping her up in the warm blankets. Continually humming to appease her, he went around the bed to detach the black translucent curtains of the canopy, protecting her sleep from the few lights that invaded the room.

**X X X X**

The music had become silent… Christine was asleep… The gloomy silence had taken back its rights… Only the dull shreds of his illusion remained… the ignominy and shame of his lie. Why had he brought her in this horrid place? Why had he ripped her from the world of above to shut her up with him in the earth? What madness or hope had led him to commit this egocentric crime? She didn't deserve to be buried with a monster who loved her! She needed the sun to grow, air to breathe, heat to blossom. There was nothing for her in this glacial and loathsome cellar. He himself was unworthy of her. When she had emerged from her enchantment, he had witnessed in her eyes a myriad of emotions he thought to have banished from his existence. Fear… Mistrust… Contempt… Disgust… It was only when she heard his voice that she had calmed down and she hadn't run away with a scream of terror. But he couldn't keep her in a continual state of hypnosis if he wanted to keep her with him. He had no wish to possess another lifeless doll, an insensitive automaton devoid of reason and feelings, just an empty shell. He wanted Christine in her entirety, to the smallest part of her being. Perhaps he had made a fatal mistake by bringing her in his lair, maybe he should have just continue to live with the hope that she could love him in spite of his appearance? Would he regret having succumbed to this whim, this weakness of his heart distraught with passion? It was certain, however, he knew that the happiness, even ephemeral, to have her near him was worth the pain and suffering he would endure to atone for his betrayal.

Behind the thin veil of the canopy, the man watched the fragile form of Christine asleep in his wide bed. She was so beautiful, vulnerable, innocent and sensual like a lonely and wild nymph dozing in a clearing hidden from humanity's eyes. His ears were filled with the calm and soothing melody of her deep breathing, a lullaby more angelic than any that he could ever write. Her sweet and delicate scent permeated the room, filling his lungs and intoxicating his brain with an indescribable serenity and a complete rapture. He could almost imagine the satin softness of her skin and her soothing warmth under the trail of his fingers. The dream might be over for Christine, but it was still possible for him to enjoy it during those few hours while she slept carelessly between his sheets. He didn't want to think about tomorrow and the terrible trials and confessions awaiting him. For the moment, his Angel's divine presence with him was all that mattered. His duplicity and deception would be unmasked soon enough.

In silence, he sat behind his desk that faced the foot of the bed, allowing him to observe Christine's motionless figure lost in the paradise of dreams. With a calmness that he wouldn't have suspected to feel after committing this crime, he picked up a piece of charcoal, a sheet of parchment and began to capture on paper the enchanting and surreal scene depicted before him. His fingers had sketched so many times the perfect contours of her face that he could draw her with his eyes closed without making the slightest mistake. As he set to work skillfully and diligently, his mind drifted to the past and the incredible circumstances that had seen the birth and growth of this deep and particular link between him and his pupil, urging him to commit the ultimate crime.

Eight months… It has been eight long grueling months that his reason was no longer his… that his heart he thought he had subdued and buried in the depths of his being, had returned to life to torture him with unrelenting cruelty. Closing his eyes, he remembered this disastrous and wonderful event that had forever changed his life, reliving that first contact with beauty, hearing again the crystalline and pure voice of a weeping Angel…

On that fateful day, exasperated by a lack of inspiration and repelled by the gloom of his lair, he ignored his habits to stay away from those of the human race and reached the opera wings, hoping to find some distractions or machinations to foment in order to occupy his mind. From the flies above the stage, he saw that morning rehearsals were in full swing, a swarm of dancers and actors frolicking on stage under the strict orders from Mr. Mercier. During another umpteenth interruption where the _répétiteur_ scolded the orchestra for its lack of timing and rhythm, he was terribly disappointed to note that his favorite toy, _Madame_ _La Carlotta_, was temporarily absent and replaced by a simple chorus girl. Having not much fun to scare timid ballerina too easily impressionable, he raged against the capricious diva and turned back to return to his familiar solitude. But no sooner had he taken a step that he was brutally stabbed in the back. His heart he had thought to be dead began to beat, to writhe and to bleed inside his prison of flesh and bone. An unbearable pain spread in his chest, his muscles and his shaken brain. A sound superhuman and unbearable by its beauty pierced his ears, making him temporarily deaf and blind to his surroundings. His senses in total confusion, he swayed dangerously on the edge of the catwalk and had to cling to a chain of support to not fall into the void. In all his life, he had never heard a voice as sweet and pure, devoid of the slightest fault and of any weakness in all its tones. Nonetheless, this crystalline timbre was sorely lacking in life, emotion, character and charisma. There was nothing, neither joy nor sorrow, nor passion as if the owner felt no desire to play this magnificent instrument. It was like listening to a soulless talented puppet scrupulously reproducing the techniques it had learned.

Clenching a hand on his chest in agony, he didn't dare to think of the potential and the perfection that this voice could have reach if it had been entrusted to his care. His curiosity stronger than his fear of being discovered, he went out of the shadows and walked on the skywalk above the stage to know the identity of this singer able to pierce his heart so mercilessly. His eyes widened when he saw a slender girl with haggard and fearful eyes, with pale skin and long dark curly hair. How so frail a creature could sing sounds of such strength and beauty? She didn't seem to be in her place on stage, lost and ready to flee at the slightest sign of danger to find the safety of the den where she was usually hidden. He had never seen or heard her before; she must be a new member of the Opera. For once, Poligny had a fine ear by choosing to commit such a talent, although she was a little deprived of life.

At that moment, Mercier called the girl to give her some instructions, and he heard for the first time the name that was going to haunt and obsess him endlessly day and night.

-"Christine, you were fine. Can you resume your brand, we will resume again," the stage director ordered.

-"Christine…" he murmured, savoring the melody of the word on his tongue and in his ears.

On stage, the troop scattered and everyone took their place for the beginning of the act, the girl disappearing from his field of vision. Finally sensing the frantic beats of his heart calm down, he straightened proudly when he saw on the other side of the flies a machinist who was watching him with a suspicious and frightened look. Joseph Buquet, the drunken and debauched nosy parker! After giving a glare at the intruder, he vanished into the darkness with a twirl of his cape under the incredulous eyes of the machinist.

During the weeks that followed this fateful encounter, he continued to spy on the girl from the dark corners of the Opera, follow her every move and listen to her through walls when she was talking and singing. Displeased with the dressing room she owned and that prevented him to observe her at his will, he orchestrated a series of incidents which forced her to move into an indigent room isolated at the end of a dark infrequent corridor. Several years before, he had arranged in this discreet chamber, for his own comfort, a sliding mirror that hid one of his many secret passages leading to his underground lair. With this two-way mirror, he could quietly contemplate Christine in every activity of her daily life, cherishing the endless hours she spent to brush her hair, to makeup, to write, to sing and to daydream.

With the passing days, he learned to know her from afar and discovered she was an orphan and that her father, a talented violinist, who had lulled her with fairytale and music, had been the center of her universe whose foundations had collapsed at his death. Every night, she went down secretly in the Opera's chapel to pray for the soul of the deceased and to ask for the arrival of her Angel of Music that he had promised her. Intrigued, he sought to unravel the mystery of this strange request and listened attentively to every girl's prayer, memorizing each new detail she revealed. His perseverance was rewarded when he realized she was evoking a Spirit that showed himself to men whose pure soul was ready to receive the gift and the teaching of music. She thought that this divine Messenger would give her the strength and inspiration to sing with the perfection to which her father destined her. A brief moment, he dreamed that he was this Angel able to pull out of her shell this wonderful nightingale eager to take flight to amaze the world with her clear and ethereal song. _Quelle_ _folie_! He was not an angel, not even a man! He was an ignominious demon who wanted what he was forbidden to possess. He hastened to forget this senseless and odious idea. He had finished with those of the human race; he had nothing to do with them anymore.

But once again, fate had decided otherwise and his good resolutions were swept away in a few hours. As usual, every Sunday of each fortnight, Christine went to the cemetery to visit her father's grave and, as usual, he accompanied her, weaving through the sepulchers and cenotaphs as silent and invisible as a shadow. When the girl left the _Palais_ _Garnier_, he had felt her agitated, distressed and upset as if all the misfortunes of humanity were weighing on her frail shoulders. Lurking in the shadow of a mausoleum, he was the powerless witness of the sorrow and affliction that tore apart and overwhelmed the young woman kneeling in tears in front of the mute and sinister tomb. He felt his heart scream of desolation faced with this intolerable scene as he understood and felt the same sufferings that tormented her. He wished he could tell her that she was not alone and that he shared the same undeserved punishment. By a strange quirk of fate, it turned out that he had his violin with him. When he heard Christine sing with such pain and distress about the sorrow of her loneliness, her appearance so vulnerable and impotent at the foot of her father's grave, he couldn't fight his need to accompany her lamentations with the tears of his violin. Then it happened what he had promised himself never to commit, as if fate had never given him the choice of his actions. He had become her Angel of Music.

Since that day and during the months that followed, he lived a daydream. Hidden behind the mirror or behind walls, he instructed Christine, talked to her, played and sang for her sole pleasure when she felt sad and abandoned. As the ivy clinging to the trunk of a tree, he took root in her soul, gorged himself on her beauty and drank in the splendor of her voice while, in exchange, he offered her wings and the gift to sing like the Seraphim. In his hands, she was as malleable as clay and, with patience and perseverance he modeled her clear voice so that it reached the magnificence for which it was destined. They were alone in the world and nothing seemed able to interrupt, nor disrupt the prodigious link that united the Angel to his student. However these peacetime were ruthlessly destroyed by the arrival of this arrogant, obnoxious and tasteless viscount.

This ignorant fool had nearly destroyed the harmony and complicity that he had slowly built during all these long weeks with Christine. Because of this insolent boy, he had to be tough and cold towards his _protégée_ who had no other choice but to bend under his authority, of which he felt guilty and miserable. He had managed to keep her with him, but his victory gave him an unpleasant bitter taste. He only wanted to see her blossom, grow and embellish under his tutelage and not in the least see her falter in fear of his wrath. He would forever remember that day when the foundations of his world had begun to crack and shake. It was during the investiture of the new directors and the departure of the former ones that he discovered the name and face that he would hate and despise with unspeakable virulence. Faithful to his bad habits, he was hiding in a dark corner and watched from afar the beginning of the festivities, waiting for the right moment to make his appearance and reveal his presence to the careless and amateurish administrators. However, he was distracted from his purpose by Christine's sudden and precipitated departure during the ceremony and, intrigued by this unusual and hasty behavior, he had followed her to the chapel. It was between the austere walls of this quiet room that his suffering and hatred had begun to gnaw at his soul. The arrow that would pierce his heart and slowly sink between his bones had sprung straight from the lips of his innocent Christine. These few ordinary syllables would forever name his nemesis, the _Vicomte_ Raoul de Chagny. Her first childhood sweetheart… a young gentleman rich, powerful, beautiful… How was he able to compete with this flawless bourgeois? What had he to give Christine in comparison of the viscount who could offer her the stars and the universe if he wanted? For her, he was just an untouchable and immaterial spirit, not a young, charming and real nobleman, ready to take her in his arms to comfort her, to walk with her in the gardens at sunset or to court her to ask for her hand. He was a monster buried in a cave who possessed only his music and his voice as unique richness and beauty. He had no chance to supplant his opponent, he was defeated in advance!

He had thought to know agony when he realized that he could never be with Christine, but it had been only a shiver compared to the unbearable grief he felt as he understood that he was going to lose her permanently. Mad with rage and despair, he had begun to scream in his hideout, pounding his fist on the wall that separated him from the girl, before crashing on the ground with a deafening roar a lantern hanging on the wall. Blinded by his anger, he ran into one of his many secret corridors and paid no sympathetic ear to Christine's pleas echoing behind him. Having no desire to torment and ridicule the stupid directors and their ersatz diva, he had merely stride through the foyer of the ballet as a gloomy, invisible and silent ghost to throw his welcome note on a sofa and steal a bottle of champagne which would be greatly useful to drown his woes during a few hours.

All night long, he struggled with his organ, sank into his compositions, got intoxicated with his music until his hands become painful, momentarily obscuring the tortures that plagued his heart. Finally, his mind in agony and helped by alcohol, he fell lifeless on the ground at the foot of his huge organ with a furious cry worthy of a dying animal. He woke at dawn, a whirlwind of nightmares and anxiety still crawling so vividly in his incoherent thoughts. Lost and devastated, he crawled pitifully into his chamber, needing to focus his mind on the daily little tasks that reminded him that the world was still moving. He must not give way to the pangs of despair and madness whose sinuous paths would lead him irremediably to his loss. He was the master of this place, the architect of these walls, the soul of the Opera Garnier! He would not be evicted by an immature boy! The duel could begin and he would show no mercy to his rival!

After having a brief wash and having changed clothes, he took the passage he had walked many times to reach Christine's dressing room, unable to fight against this vital need to which his body was accustomed to see the young girl, like an addict refusing to give up his dependence. Even if she didn't belong to him, he couldn't help but be obsessed with her beauty, her innocence, her talent, all these treasures he wanted to jealously protect and appropriate. He found her in her dressing room, quietly waiting for his coming, her puffy face and bloodshot eyes betraying the tears she had shed during the night. A clock standing on the small writing desk rang the eight times of the hour, it was usually this jovial bell that announced the end of their daily lesson, but this morning, it sounded more like a bleak knell which put an end to their secret meetings. At this familiar sound, Christine, distraught by the absence of her teacher, hid her face in her hands to cry all the tears of her body. He hastened to look away from this sad spectacle, overwhelmed and ashamed to know that he was responsible for it. He couldn't bear to see her cry because of him, yet he wouldn't change his decision. Even though he suffered as much than her of this choice, he had to punish her for her lack of obedience and for her betrayal, so she would know which being was the most important to her. If she preferred to care about boys and her love life, he refused to continue his lessons until she understood her penance. He had been quite clear in his requirements and had warned her repeatedly against the lies and deceptions that men were able to fashion to obtain the favor of a woman. He had even found his sermon rather ironic, given that he was himself one of those impostors; however his original intentions had been to protect her. He didn't want her to share the tragic, but common fate of these young artists who sank into misery and disgrace after being abused and defiled by these so-called benefactors. Despite his advice, she seemed nonetheless to have chosen this path fraught with hardships he had forbidden her.

In the adjoining room, the lament stopped abruptly, then he heard the door slam, and when he looked in the chamber, it was empty. Christine had gone with such velocity that he hadn't even time to open his eyes to see her disappear on the threshold. What event had occurred to bring such a sudden burst of energy! Driven by curiosity, he listened to the girl's footsteps hurrying down the hall and he began to chase her from the shelter of his secret passage until it reached a backdoor leading into a narrow closet. He heard her tread pass before his hiding place and, after making sure no one else was in the driveway, he came out and continued his chase through the Opera house, making his way through the shadows and the walls. Their promenade had first taken them to the stables where she had exchanged a few words with the coach driver, and then they went to the dormitory where she changed clothes. Modestly turning away while she was dressing, he was wondering about the destination and the purpose of this precipitate trip, which was not in her habits. It was rare for her to leave the safety of the _Palais_ _Garnier_ except for her visits to the cemetery and her occasional walks in the gardens of Paris. Meg's voice suddenly sounded in the room and he turned to see the little ballerina's arrival, hopping perkily. When he discovered the dress Christine was wearing, he knew immediately where she was going. For what reason would she go to the cemetery so early in the morning?

Leaving the two women, he hastened to join his lair where he collected some objects before reaching the stables where he quietly prepared his horse to follow the carriage that was already leaving the Opera. When they were at the cemetery, he hid behind a large sarcophagus and watched Christine kneeling near her father's tomb. From his shelter, he perfectly heard the soft murmur of her voice that begged her Angel to show some mercy and forgive the weakness of her soul. Her overwhelmed sobs increasing in intensity, she swore to him the most complete obedience and loyalty if he agreed to return to her. His heart that he had attempted to harden softened faced with the despair and sincerity of Christine's complaint. Neither of them could fight against fate and the power of the exceptional and unique feelings that bonded them. They had gone too far in their relationship to live without the comfort and well-being they offered each other. For better or for worse, they were hopelessly dependent on one another. Just as a tree needed sun's rays to grow, they needed the friendship and the compassion of the other to feel alive. He would have behaved like a selfish coward if he refused to answer her plea. Unable to endure any longer the wrench of her tears, of her grief and of her distress, he took his violin from its case and played the soothing melody she had sung the first time he had dared to talk to her. To his great joy, he watched the girl's taciturn face straighten up and regain hope, her cheeks finding this delicate pink that characterized her and her eyes recovering their brilliant sparkle. Knowing that his words would never be enough to keep her away from the viscount, he nevertheless reaffirmed once again his authority and commands, using her fear of losing him to keep her at his side. But when he left her, he felt no jubilation, only the shame and guilt of having crushed her innocent and fragile heart under his domination, of having abuse of the innocence of her soul.

During the following weeks, she was true to her word and showed an unparalleled discipline and diligence in her work even as he became more critical and demanding than ever. Having never lived a triumph, she still needed to be approved and encouraged by her teacher, but when she would know the adulation and the fervor of the public, he knew he would lose her, not to mention this insufferable viscount who will certainly use her success to promote his own interests. For the moment, she remained loyal to him and avoided the young nobleman like the plague, having not yet been recognized. However, he knew when she would be in the spotlight; she would immediately attract attention and would inevitably be unmasked. It was impossible to know what would be her reaction to this confrontation. Perhaps she would surrender herself to the young man or she would keep a semblance of attachment to her Angel and would dismiss him without a word of politeness. He had to summon up his patience and wait to discover what future had to offer.

If, unfortunately, it turned out that she succumbed to the charms of this gentleman, he was determined to reveal himself to the girl, to present her his world, his music and to court her in due form, so that she could choose according to her wish between her two suitors. He was ready to fight with all the ferocity and passion of his love to prevent this young seducer from stealing him his sweet Christine. She belonged to him, he had shaped, molded her, and he had given her back her courage and self-confidence. Without him, she would still be a poor and timid _ingénue_ limited to play minor unimportant roles and to waste her talent. He had found a frail sparrow and had transformed it into a beautiful phoenix ready to open its wings and take flight to bring to men the music of Heaven. Was it not reasonable that he wished to receive any thanks or a small recognition as a reward for the work done? Was it not what ordinary people demanded for any services? Why should it be different with him? Was it so bad that a monster wanted what every man considered as innate and legitimate? He required nothing more than to be with her physically without an impersonal mirror to separate them, to finally know the joy of hugging her, and breathe the sweet fragrance of her glorious hair, even though he knew he would regret it bitterly in the future.

His decision made, he must now carry out his plan and prepared meticulously the night that would see the soar of his splendid Angel of Music. The choice of the opera that would consecrate Christine imposed itself when he learned that _Faust_ would again be represented. He couldn't expect better than the tragic story of this young innocent girl abused and betrayed by the perfidy of love. It was the perfect and appropriate masterpiece to present to the world his angelic pupil. It only remained to oust _La Carlotta_, what he executed in no time at all with a tea enhanced of some harmful plants which sent the diva in bed, and to threaten the directors to impose Christine in the title role, what was also easily achieved, given that the novice administrators were unaware of how to handle these last-minute changes without panicking. They had no choice but to obey his instructions to avoid the scandal of a cancellation and the refund of the tickets. The preparations for their journey through the underground of the _Palais_ _Garnier_ were settled in a few hours; he just had to steal the horse from the stables, to light the candelabra in the many long tunnels they would borrow and to stow his boat on the lake shore. For the rest of the small details, his music and his voice would wrap the girl in a cloud of dreams and magic, making her docile and trusting, so that he could guide her through the mirror and the dark tunnels of the cellar without she felt the slightest fear.

An hour before the crucial performance, he had sent to Madame Giry some instructions concerning the sequence of events after the curtain falls and the charge of several objects he wanted to offer Christine. As always, the ballet mistress proved to be a treasure of excellence and dedication, fulfilling wonderfully these imperative tasks that would admirably perfected the girl's triumph on stage. When he was sure that everything was done according to his orders, he had hurried to return to the demoiselle who was busy preparing for the show. Taking his place behind the mirror, he saw her anxious and troubled face relax in a serene and peaceful expression when she perceived his reassuring presence at her side. Delighted by her reaction that proved once again the strength of the invisible and mystical link that united them, he immediately began to hum softly in her ear to comfort and encourage her before her entrance.

From the moment he heard her sing the first notes; he knew that the glory was within her reach. Hidden in the shadow of box five, he watched with admiration and pride the audience remain silent and stunned at the feet of his frail nightingale that lived and breathed to the rhythm of the music. She had put the _Tout-Paris_ on its knees. Never a more beautiful and perfect voice had echoed between the walls of this magnificent palace dedicated to the lyric arts. Trembling all over his body and his soul, he left his seat as fast as his wobbly legs allowed him, and joined the dressing room where she had been taken. He was surprised to discover her fainted on the couch, apparently exhausted by the deluge of emotions she had endured on stage, but he was more irritated by the presence of the Viscount in the room. He could not help but think that if the world was fair, he should have been the young man sitting at her bedside and leaning over her face, his hands should have been the ones entwining hers and his lips the ones kissing her fingers. However, he grinned when he remarked the austere coldness and disdain with which Christine rebuffed him when she was awake.

At last, all the intruders who had gathered in the room were promptly dismissed by Madame Giry while the doctor examined the girl. He knew she didn't need any cure; she just had to hear the soft murmur of her Angel to regain her strength. Singing a few words of comfort and reassurance, he was amused to see the perplexity appear on the doctor's face while Christine relaxed and calmed as if by magic when she heard his voice inaudible to the uninitiated.

After the departure of the therapist, a spectacle of a different nature and of a very different interest took place in the dressing room under his eyes and for his own pleasure. With the precious help of Madame Giry, he contemplated Christine clothe in the magnificent presents he had purchased especially for her. He admired her with desire as she was wrapped in her opulent midnight blue dress and as Madame Giry combed and adorned her abundant hair with her sparkling diamond ornaments. As he longed to be in the place of this woman to run his fingers through her sumptuous and shimmering brown curls that seemed to stretch to infinity, to smell their intoxicating flowery fragrance alike an exotic garden with a thousand scents, to relish their ineffable softness beside which the silk appeared to be rough straw.

Finally, Christine was alone in her dressing room, but instead of sitting quietly to wait for the return of the ballet mistress, she rushed to the door and fled from the room in a hurry. With a smile amused by her youthful and impetuous behavior, he knew immediately where she was going with such an eager, impatient and nervous tread. In a few minutes, he joined his hiding place behind the wall of the chapel where she was sitting silently, awaiting his arrival to talk to him and hear his opinion and criticism about her performance on stage. While he incensed her of endless praise and sing her glory, they were interrupted by the indiscreet intrusion of Meg whose curiosity and suspicion had been roused by the incredible talent and the unexpected triumph of her friend. Christine hesitantly and timidly revealed the existence of the Angel of Music and the friendship that united them, what the little ballerina greeted with a skeptical frown. He had a sly smirk as he observed that the young Marguerite Giry was the perfect reflection of her mother, both had a good head on their shoulders and were not easily duped.

The hour that followed was probably the most painful and exhausting his nerves had to endure since he knew Christine. His guts eaten by a rage and a jealousy he struggled to contain, he observed during interminable minutes these scoundrels, these philistines and these libertines play the suitor with her innocent Christine, kissing her fingers with mawkish and stupid smile without ceasing to gaze her greedily and lasciviously. It took all his reason and his strength not to emerge from his secret place, to pounce on these lecherous louts to strangle them one after the other before abducting her from this despicable ordeal.

His patience and composure were rewarded when at last Christine was taken back in her personal dressing room by Madame Giry. Behind the window that was the mirror, he contemplated the entirety of her majestic silhouette draped in diaphanous silk and surrounded with glittering jewels. She had never appeared more royal and resplendent to him! She herself seemed stunned by the reflection that the glass showed her. Again, she changed her outfit and revealed herself to his eyes dressed in the rich and delicate night ensemble he had made sew by the best known luxury tailor of the city. His heart skipped a beat as he became intoxicated with the candor and sensuality that emanated from her in this magical moment. More than ever, he felt the vital need to be with her, to hold her in his arms and breathe the heady fragrance of her refined perfume.

Madame Giry left the room after a few minutes, finally letting him in _tête-à-tête_ with his beloved Angel. Persuaded that she would pensively complete her toilet to go sleeping, she surprised him as she approached the mirror that she examined carefully and tenderly. She stood just a few inches from him, the thin and impenetrable thickness of the mirror being the only physical barrier between them. This situation reminded him of the day when he had desperately wanted to caress her hand through the mirror, when he had really believed that their fingers had touched before waking up to reality and see that it had been only a dream. His eyes focused on the girl in front of him, he watched her lay her palm on the silver surface that she kissed affectionately and against which she leaned her delicate forehead with a sigh. Unable to restrain his vain gesture, he raised his arm and his fingers traced through the mirror Christine's perfect face. In a soft and hopeful voice, she uttered a sentence that only reinforced the resolution he had taken. She whispered devoutly that she would wait for him as long as necessary, but she was far from imagining that her waiting would be very brief.

While they shared a tender moment of silence during which he admired her dreamily as she sit at her dressing-table, they were rudely disturbed by the arrival of this execrable viscount. Invading the place as if it belonged to him, he desecrated the silhouette of his loving Christine with his hateful hands and forced her to go out to supper with him. She tried to politely decline his request, but the puerile noble didn't accept a refusal in reply.

Furious to see his plans upset by this scoundrel, he locked Christine in her dressing room and poured out against his innocent and irreproachable _protégée_ the resentment and hatred he felt towards the young noble and that suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. But the gentleness, the candor and the compassion of the girl calmed his fury and fear, leaving him shameful of the unworthy manner in which he had treated her. Once more, she begged him to show himself, to take her with him in his world, to snatch her from the cruelty and loneliness of reality to live with him. He had reached the point of no return, this moment when everything might collapse. The decision he was going to take would forever change their existence for the worse or for the better. Despite the doubts, the fears and the dangers involved, he chose to believe in his Angel of Music and to surrender to her wish.

The ensuing minutes were the most splendid, glorious and unforgettable he had ever experience while they were traveling through the dark underground of his realm, accompanied by the incessant music of his organ buried in the depths of the Opera _Garnier_. He had never thought she would respond in a way as absolute and visceral to his appeal. She followed him blindly, without fear, nor protest, she seemed to not even notice his mask on which her eyes didn't linger a tiny second. What was she dreaming about? What fabulous images were evolving in her fertile imagination? Was she really seeing him or another? She was with him, was it not all that mattered?

Their journey ultimately led them to his home beyond the Lake _Averne_ and to this long-awaited moment when Christine was peacefully asleep in the opulence of his plush sheet. Laying on the desk the perfect sketch he had finished, he stood up and walked silently to the bed. During tireless minutes, he admired her in her serene sleep, her chest heaving with the rhythm of her slow and calm breathing, her abundant luminous curls spilling on the pillow as a layer of autumn leaves and her angelic face with its porcelain complexion outlining a small smile. Unaware of his actions as if it was his turn to be under the spell of the girl, he parted the curtains of the canopy and held out a trembling hand to her. The tips of his gloved fingers brushed her pink and warm cheek before to slide shyly on her temple where he seized with unspeakable precaution a thick lock of her hair and, leaning over her, he breathed in their delicate fragrance. His mind veiled by the mists of her sweet perfume, he looked up at her face so close to his that he felt her sweet breath invade his nostrils. It would have been so easy at this moment to get closer and to drop a kiss on her sleepy and full lips. Lost in the shadows of dreams, she would not even remember his act in the morning.

Horrified and disgusted by his abject and monstrous thoughts, he turned away from the bed with a violent and hasty movement before committing the most vile and despicable of his crimes. How dare he sully the purity and innocence of his Angel by such odious ideas, profane her trust as she slept beside him without fear? He was really the horrible beast that everyone described, a demon ready to corrupt and dishonor a divine young maid for his selfish pleasure! He had to go away at all costs, to flee from temptation against which he felt unable to fight indefinitely! Forcing himself to leave the room without looking back, he sighed with relief to be in the safety of his familiar living room and collapsed on the small piano bench, away from this Pandora's Box he refused to open. He could never abuse her kindness and her compassion for his simple desire! He could never accept anything from her that was not given of her free will. It was time that he returned to his sordid exile, that he put an end to his terrible lie and that he finally agreed to free the girl from his sinister hold.

He had lived his dream. They had been together, if only for this one night! He had held her frail silhouette in his arms, had smelled her heady perfume and touched her sumptuous hair. He shouldn't ask anything more from her! It was time that his betrayal burst out into the open and that the reality regained its rights. Christine deserved to know the awful truth about her supposed Angel of Music.


	5. Chapter 5 : Angel or Phantom

**A/N:**Another long wait, but _voilà_ I'm at last able to post a new chapter of my story. I express my thanks to the readers for their patience and their nice comments. I wish you a pleasant reading and don't forget I'm all ears to your suggestions. Hoping you will appreciate this new chapter, I remain, dear friends, your obedient servant, Taedium Vitae…

* * *

**~ Chapter 5 ~**  
**– Angel or Phantom –**

* * *

Wrapped in a cloud of softness and torpor, Christine floated and drifted on the waves of awakening and sleep where there was no border between reality and dream, where the senses and spirit mingled and merged in one unique entity, in this magical place where the impossible became accessible and whose only limits were those of the imagination. An extraordinary dream haunted her thoughts, subdued and lured her soul away from the pallid, cold and cruel light, leading her in an underground palace, peaceful and welcoming, where the night's ethereal veil and the golden candlelight reigned. Lost in the dark mists of oblivion and unconsciousness, she was cradled in the arms of her Angel who whispered tenderly love songs in her ear, filling her heart with hundreds of unknown and exhilarating emotions to which she wanted to succumb with her whole being. Without feeling any fear, she abandoned the physical world and sank into the abyss of darkness to remain eternally with her Guardian, to forget herself in this fantastic realm she had at last reached after these long years of loneliness and grief. She had finally found her shelter, her refuge, her haven of peace that she refused to leave.

In the midst of her nebulous and lethargic thoughts, snatches of her incredible journey recurred to her disjointed memory and flashed before her marveled eyes. She remembered a dazzling and immaterial mirror, a peaceful ride into the depths of the earth where hundreds of candles were burning like golden fireflies. There was also a vast lake with bluish gleam on which silently slipped a black boat led by a strange and majestic man who guided her to a house hidden from the prying eyes of the world. And music… ardent, prodigious, exhilarating, divine… the heavenly notes had never stopped swirling and echoing in her ears during her insane journey. They were so sublime, amazing, stirring and feverish they seemed to have miraculously come to life to continue to resound in eternity. Her soul and her heart still shivered and thumped as she remembered this Seraphic symphony that vibrated endlessly in her mind, or was it…

Christine opened her heavy eyelids and emerged from a deep and hypnotic sleep filled with mesmerizing dreams and she painfully came back to reality that seemed just as illusory as her reveries. She was lying peacefully in a sumptuous four-poster bed with a plush mattress garnished with fine linen sheets, thick feather pillows and a wide down warm and cozy. All this comfort and luxury were far from the scratchy blankets and the hard and threadbare pillows of the modest bunk she occupied in the Opera's dormitories. Propping on her elbow, she observed through the translucent curtains stretched around the bed, the sumptuous decor and rich furnishings that the light of rare candles revealed and her eyes narrowed in puzzlement when she saw a huge organ against the wall on her left. Her numb brain suddenly realized that the gentle and feeble melody of a piano filled the luxurious room, coming from somewhere beyond the walls. Was this the source of the music that had rocked her fantasies? And where was she? Who had brought her in this strange and magnificent place? Was it Raoul or the stranger who had sent her this rose and all these gifts? Had this secret admirer decided to drug and abduct her in the intent to bring her into his house and obscenely abused her favors? And where was her Angel? Had she imagined his unexpected coming, their splendid meeting and their wonderful journey through the kingdom of darkness and music? Was it all due to the soporific effects of an elixir which had been administered to her against her will? It was true that she felt confused and a little intoxicated, but she couldn't remember having consumed any alcoholic beverage. Her memories were hazy and fragmented as if someone had entangled and manipulated her thoughts. Fear arose in her at the idea of what could have occurred during her sleep.

With apprehension, she threw back the covers and noticed she was still wearing her night-clothes and even her little slippers, which seemed to indicate that she hadn't been physically abused by her captor. Dragging herself out of the sheets, she sat on the bed and pushed her thick and unruly hair away from her face before her gaze was attracted by a strange marionette near her. A lovely wooden box topped with the figure of a little monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals was placed on the bedside table. Intrigued by this unusual toy, she held out a curious hand to touch it, when suddenly the doll began to move its arms to produce a slight tingling with its cymbals. A sweet melody similar to a farandole resounded in the casket and she realized that this funny puppet was nothing else than a music box. For several seconds, she listened as it played a joyous and complex rhyme until it interrupted and the monkey froze.

But the invisible chords of the piano were still humming. Her momentarily distracted mind reverted to the unknown place that surrounded her and the disturbing situation in which she was. With a quick movement, she closed her dressing gown around her chest as she stood and she hesitantly treaded toward the door, the music getting more distinct as she approached it. On her way, she saw a massive desk covered with papers and parchments in front of which she lingered. At first glance, she discovered dozens of portraits that represented her seating at her dressing table, asleep in her bed, dancing and singing on stage, kneeling in the chapel and at her father's grave as if an obscure observer had spied her from afar during the last months. On the pile of paper, she even found a drawing that depicted her lying in the bed she had just left. Uncomfortable to see the obsession that this mysterious man vowed her, she turned away with an uneasy shudder and walked the last steps to the door of which she briefly hesitated to turn the handle. She had the strange feeling that the crossing of this threshold would forever change and disrupt her life.

Pushing the door, she reached a huge room lit by dozens of candles and gas lamps where stood a large couch, two upholstered armchairs, many libraries and a vast chimney whose hearth was glowing with fading embers. Her gaze was instantly attracted to the slim silhouette of a man sitting at a black piano as he skimmed over the keyboard with a light and delicate hand as if he was stroking the skin of his lover. She could only distinguish his narrow back with square shoulders on which were draped an ample robe of black velvet, and his jet-black hair strictly smoothed back on his nape.1 She took a few uncertain and silent steps in his direction before he turned in a sudden movement at her approach and stopped playing. A white mask hid the right side of his face; however, the element that was the most disturbing to Christine was his bright eyes of the color of jade. She knew those eyes! They had appeared in her dressing room, had accompanied her on her journey, had chased her in sleep, then she remembered who they belonged to, but it was impossible! This look belonged to her Angel. How such an aberration could occur? This dark character and her Guardian, were they one single person, or was he just his messenger? All this was illogical and insane! Was she still in a dream or has she gone mad? However, this room and this personage seemed perfectly real, authentic and almost familiar!

The man watched her sadly for several seconds before turning away, his head and his shoulders sagging as if under the weight of a heavy burden. This moment he had so much feared during the night was inevitably presented to him. His lie, his perfidy and deceit were unmasked with no possibility of return. The time of truth had arrived. He had to face the resentment, the disgust and the disappointment of Christine for having dared to abuse her in a manner so vile and perverse. After a heavy sigh, he stood up and approached Christine who stared at him with a puzzled, lost, helpless and almost hating look, as she understood the deception of which she had been the innocent victim. She recoiled suddenly when he was at her side, but he managed to gently take her arm and she allowed him to guide her to the couch where she sat statically like a rigid wooden doll. The masked stranger knelt before her, bowed his head in humility and he clasped his hands that rested on his thighs as if he was kneeling down to pray at the feet of an idol. He again let out a painful sigh and gathered all his courage and determination not to give in to the acids tears burning in his eyes. He had no right to cry, because he wasn't at all the victim, but the executioner!

-"Oh, Christine…" he whispered her revered and sacred name as he had done many times in the past.

The girl's breath froze when she recognized the man's voice which was none other than the one of her Angel. It was impossible, yet this enigmatic individual stood before her and spoke with the profound and melodious tone she had learned to know and love over the past months. Her doubts and suspicions were sadly confirmed by these simple syllables while her hopes were dashed by the ruthless truth. There had never been an Angel, a Genius or a Divine Spirit descended from Heaven to teach her music. The Voice was nothing but a man!

-"Do not worry about your fate, Christine! You are in no danger," he revealed affectionately before raising his distressed look on her.

Frowning, she detailed the features of her jailer and the strange beige mask that covered half his face. The simple and masculine lines and contours she discovered were identical to those of her Angel, although they appeared more emaciated and sharp than in her blurred memories. However, his eyes of pale green like emerald didn't leave any doubt. Her angel and this stranger were the same person! But who was he? This mask reminded her something that she could no longer remember, an element that was part of her daily life and of which she had spoken more than once. Curiously, an event of the night came to her mind and stated her thought. The horse _César_ had carried her into the maze of underground corridors, but she knew that this animal had been stolen from the stables several hours before the curtain time by a supernatural Specter that everyone feared. Not to mention that the caves and the hidden lake beneath the _Palais Garnier_ were supposed to host the lair of this dark creature. The words of Meg, of the ballerinas and stagehands describing a mysterious man wearing a mask and dressed in black who haunts the underground of the Opera echoed in her boiling head. Was it the truth? Her invisible Professor had always been that evil and elusive being who enjoyed terrorizing artists, this Phantom of the Opera…

At this sordid revelation, she put her hands to her mouth to stifle the sobs gathered in her throat, but she couldn't restrain her tears which flowed freely down her white cheeks. Horrible stories were going around this gloomy personage! Some told he took pleasure in abducting young girls in his underground domain to give them a punishment worse than death. She was now his prisoner, his slave and she could only imagine the terrible fate he reserved her.

As he saw the silver tears bathed Christine's face, the masked man realized what torment and bitterness were weighing on her heart. Shame and guilt overwhelmed him like a vise attempting to crush his soul between its steel jaws. Crushed by the burden of his unbearable shame and of his betrayal, his head fell heavily against his chest.

-"It is true, Christine! I am not an Angel, nor a genius, nor a phantom… I am Erik!" he said in a long complaint.

Horrified by his crime and unable to bear any longer Christine accusing gaze, he buried his face in his palms to hide his unworthy tears and his cowardice. He had destroyed everything with his own hands. _Quel imbécile!_ He should have remained in the shadows to continue his imposture and forget this insane desire to be with her and hug her like any common mortals. At least this way he could have continued to see and talk to her, because it was obvious now she knew the truth she was going to hate and shun him. It was so since the dawn of time. Monsters existed to be loathed and humiliated. She would nevermore consider him as her angel! In her eyes, he was only an infamous criminal who used her kindness and innocence to deceive and lure her into his lair with the intention to possess her favor.

-"Forgive me, Christine… I'm a horrible beast… a demon who thought he could rise to the level of angels and face Beauty," he lamented. "I never meant to make you any harm, nor lie to you or hurt you. I have only tried to help you when you had lost all hope and courage to live your dream. Believe me; I have no bad thoughts on your behalf. I just want to watch over your well-being and protect you from the cruelty of this world. Oh, Christine, I beg you… Forgive me this lie…"

Outraged and shocked by his words that contradicted all his other acts, the girl straightened up and resumed her composure. This man had the audacity to self-pity and to legitimize his despicable acts into believing he had done them for her well-being! What a hypocrite! It was as if she was the torturer and he was the poor martyr!

-"Watch over me? Protect me? It's by abducting me and shutting me up that you expect to do this?" she rebuked him scornfully. "And if you're really the honest man you claim, uncover your face so I can see you!"

At these words, her hands reached out to viciously grab the mask she wanted to snatch from his head to know the features of her jailer. But the man seized her wrists with superhuman speed; his strong fingers tightening viciously around her white flesh that blushed under the hardness of his grip.

-"You are in no danger, so long as you do not touch the mask," he warned through gritted teeth before forcing Christine's hands to cross on her knees.

Unable to contain herself, she felt mounting and seething in the pit of her stomach a fury and resentment against this unspeakable traitor as she had never experienced before.

-"How have you dare lie to me this way… humiliate me and treat me so roughly? I am not one of these easy girls that you're used to torment!"

Erik would have wanted to curl up and disappear into nothingness as he listened to this scurrilous speech and unfortunately so true, yet he held on and endured his punishment stoically. He deserved to suffer her anger and contempt!

-"I believed you… I have obeyed you blindly… I have listened and drunk all your words and they were only lies," she wept bitterly. "I gave you my mind without limit or fear and you have played with me!"

-"Christine, I've maybe lied about my identity, but my words were always sincere and I have never mocked your feelings towards me! Your happiness and your peace of mind is all that matters to me! Believe me when I assure you that I am just as distressed as you to have used such a ruse, but I had no choice," he lamented sadly. "You would never have allowed me to become your teacher if you had known the truth about my reputation, my appearance… about my ugliness… You would have fled like all the others before. The Angel of Music was the only way able to give you back the faith you had lost so you can finally sing with the perfection to which you are destined."

Christine listened attentively to this long complaint that she pondered again and again in search of any lie, but his intentions seemed frank and honest. Without understanding by what miracle, she momentarily forgot her grief and laid an almost touched look on the desperate man who was kneeling humbly at her feet.

-"Is it not what you wanted?" he asked, raising his tearful eyes on her. "That your Angel becomes a man so you can be at his side? Have you not sworn to me that my appearance or my identity didn't matter to you? You promised me to forget your fears, your prejudices, and your judgment, to accept difference and see the beauty beyond the appearances! Were they empty words… lies?"

Faced with the tearful and bewildered eyes of the poor man, Christine felt her anger softened and a deep sentiment of sorrow and compassion awoke in her heart. It was true that despite his deception, he had offered her everything she dreamed and what he had promised. He was a caring friend willing to listen and to console her in difficult times, as well as a great teacher who allowed her to sing with the grace of the Seraphim. Despite her disappointment, she realized that this discovery didn't affect in any way the special bond that united them and that they shared. Everything was different, and yet nothing has changed. He was always the Angel of Music.

-"What do you expect from me?" she asked with resolution.

-"Nothing… except that we continue the work and friendship that we started, but now as we look face-to-face without any opaque mirror separating us."

Again, she felt troubled and confused thinking he had observed her with interest and thoroughness all these months while she went about her daily chores carelessly.

-"Shall I consider myself as your prisoner?"

-"A prisoner? No, I would never dare to lock you up! You're my guest! Know that this house belongs to you and everything I have is yours," he stated with a frown.

-"Am I free to leave?" she asked with the hope that he would deliver her without protest.

To her amazement, he turned abruptly and stood with a lithe movement evoking the elegance of a feline. His head bowed and his hands still on either side of his hips as they tightened in two awful whitened and trembling fists.

-"Yes, you're free…" he whispered sadly.

With these words, he approached the piano in front of which he sat, and his fingers touched and caressed the keyboard with tenderness and instantly a rain of notes fell from the sky in a bitter, delicate and tragic melody as if the player was infusing his loneliness and pain in the instrument which seemed to weep with him. Then the Man's voice, the voice of the Ghost, the voice of the Angel rose in the room with the beauty and the grace of a harp, flying in heaven with the majesty of a dove, sometimes melancholic, sometimes passionate. Against all odds, Christine listened and remained paralyzed on the couch she had not even left. She tried to resist its charms, but already she felt her thoughts disturb and abandon gradually to the delights of dreams and oblivion. Even the idea of escape had vanished from her mind. The torpor overcame her; her head swayed, the Voice rocked her and led her to the threshold of sleep where she sank with relish.

**X X X X**

After several minutes, Erik left his keyboard and turned round on his seat to watch Christine asleep on the couch, her angelic face resting against one of the pillows near the armrest. One of her long curls had escaped from her tresses and unfolded along her cheek, touched her lips and wound on the red velvet cushion. In silence, he got up and knelt at the foot of the couch before extending hesitantly his hand and gently pushing back her hair that he combed behind her shoulder. He knew that he had acted like a cowardly and selfish scoundrel in bewitching Christine with his music and his voice to force her to stay with him, but he wasn't yet ready to let her go. Now he had managed to bring her into his house, he wanted to enjoy her company at least for the next few days. After this somewhat constrained stay, he would release her and she would be free to return or not to his home according to her own will. He vowed to never use anymore his powers of hypnosis to make her obey him. She wasn't a puppet he could manipulate as he wished, but a beautiful and innocent girl who deserved to be treated with the respect due to a queen. His fingers imperceptibly pressed against her wavy hair, he leaned over her and whispered softly in her ear.

-"Christine, my sweet Angel… my wonderful Muse… If you knew how much I've been waiting for your arrival… You alone can give life to my music! You hold my heart and soul… I need you, Christine… Stay with me, please…"

He couldn't swear it, but it seemed that the girl smiled briefly and even nodded as she listened to his request. His heart full of hope and love, he took Christine in his arms and gently carried her in the room that he had expressly furnished for her comforts. Savoring once more the weight of her body clasped in his embrace, he laid her down on the soft bed and covered her carefully.

With one last look at his divine princess, he went away and left the room, closing the door soundlessly. Standing in his living room, Erik listened to the silence that had settled once again into his home, but he felt no aversion or oppression about it as it often happened. He knew only a few feet away his Angel of Music, his sublime Goddess, his charming Fairy of the North was asleep. For the first time since he lived in these unhealthy caves, he was not alone in his house and he felt an immeasurable relief that he struggled to contain.

She didn't scream, she didn't run away, she hadn't rejected or despised him, or even cursed him for his act. Instead, she had shown the compassion and the kindness worthy of an angel toward him. Closing his eyes, he remembered those precious minutes he had spent in her company. He had spoken with her, he had contemplated her unspeakable beauty, he had breathed her heady scent without having to hide behind a mirror or hypnotize her to enslave and submit her to his will. They had shared a normal conversation face-to-face like two civilized people, even if he had felt her scared and intimidated. But her distrust was quite natural given the extraordinary events and shocking revelations she had to assimilate and accept in a matter of minutes. During the next few days, he would do his best so that she was comfortable in this place, that she didn't need anything, that she felt safe and cared for as she deserved. Over time, she would learn to know him, to trust him and she would understand that she had nothing to fear from him; perhaps she would even be able to appreciate him a little bit.

His mind was in turmoil, scaffolding idyllic and utopian scenarios where they lived together happily until the end of time, but the reality was that his fairy tale could only end in tragedy. No woman can love a beast! Trying to chase his gloomy thoughts, he looked frantically for an activity capable of removing his mind of his wishful thinking and channeling this sudden and furious energy that rose in him. His choice fell on his violin, and as soon as his bow hit the strings, a beautiful and melancholic melody flowed from his fingers. The notes fled through the walls and reached Christine to rock her dreams, guiding her into a realm of song, light and love where no sorrow, no pain, no hatred existed.

During many minutes he was carried away by the passion and the delirium of his complaint in a world where the senses were the only true reality as if his soul abandoned his repulsive carcass to soar to the stars. The music totally possessed him. When finally he emerged from his euphoria, he opened his eyelids that fluttered a few seconds to accommodate the harsh light of the room, before resting the violin with trembling and numb hands. Dazed and distraught, he swayed like a drunken man to his chair on which he fell heavily, and then he tried to calm his gasping and feverish palpitations. He often sank into the depths of his symphonies, but this dive had seemed more abysmal and irresistible than ever, to the point that he had the feeling of suffocating and drowning in a bottomless pit. Christine's presence between those walls must have been the reason of this sudden and dazzling inspiration as if she had been a Muse whispering these wondrous chords in his ear.

With an exhausted sigh, he leaned back in his seat and his eyes fell on the little clock placed on the mantelpiece. Several hours had passed. He understood better why he was so tired and why his hands were so painful and stiff. However, he wondered what external intervention had made him quit his spell, but hardly had he finished the question that the answer presented itself to him. One of the bells he used as alarm was sounding insistently in the vestibule. An intruder must have activated one of his warning mechanisms that were located in the basement of the Opera, alerting him when an interloper dared to venture into his domain, which seemed to be the case this moment.

Cursing those suicidal idiots who neglected his threats, he stood up, went to the hall and his eyes widened when he discovered which bells was ringing. It was the last one that was connected to the device on the old hidden passage in the fifth cellar. This path was an ancient service road installed during the construction of the building and was formerly used to access the foundations, but it was no more used. It led directly on the lakeshore or more precisely to a long tunnel which ended near his home. This abandoned gallery was the shortest and easiest access to his lair and it had been visited only once, many years ago, by a carpenter who had met there his doom. After this unfortunate incident, he had hastened to remove all the door locks and had secured it by placing bolts he had especially created that nobody knew how to open except him. However, despite the precautions he had taken, an idiot had nonetheless managed to enter his lair. What man was mad or reckless enough to dare challenge his wrath? In all likelihood, the siren would mourn another victim before the sunset.

With a cold and meticulous calmness, he took off his shoes, his velvet robe and his shirt that he hung neatly on a peg in the antechamber. It was useless to get soaked more than necessary. In a coffer, he grabbed a black mask he fastened on his face and a long stalk painted in black. Ready to welcome his host, he went out and made sure the door was closed and would keep the precious seraph that his house sheltered. By a strange twist of fate, Mother Nature had endowed him with an excellent night vision. He was not in the least hindered by the surrounding darkness unlike his opponent who would undoubtedly hold a lantern which would guide him to his prey like a lighthouse on the dark sea. Slowly as to make no noise, he went into the icy water and dived to swim where the intruder was awaiting his fate, breathing by the hollow stick he used as a snorkel. In few minutes, he reached his destination and saw through the waves of the water a man standing on the stone shore, swinging a lantern in the hope to pierce the veil of darkness. He stood a little far from the edge to grasp him, but Erik wasn't discouraged for so little. Taking a deep breath, he hummed softly in his thin cylinder, drawing the attention of the intruder that stopped fidgeting and pricked up his ears. He knelt to get closer to the source of this strange melody and he bent over the shimmering surface, so low that he could easily topple into the water. Erik seized the opportunity and didn't hesitate.

With his feet resting against a rock in the lake, he propelled himself with the speed and power of a torpedo, his arms, and his torso spurted from the calm waters and his hands closed around the neck of his target.

-"Erik, no!" screamed the stranger before he draw him into the water pit that would become his grave.

Stranger? This man, had he not called him by name? Nobody knew his identity in the theater! And that voice? It seemed strangely familiar! Was it him? Impossible! He must be dead! However, he had to be sure before committing an irreparable mistake. His fingers let go of his prey's throat and grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling out of the water the limp body that he rolled on the shore. The survivors spat out and coughed hard to regain his breath while Erik climbed ashore and stood up, wiping the water streaming down his face and hair. In a glance, Erik immediately recognized the man he had almost drowned. The features were a bit thinner and the hair was cut shorter, but that dark and cunning look was always the same.

-"Daroga!" the Ghost exclaimed in an imperious and threatening tone. "Have you lost the little sense that you possessed to dare to venture uninvited in my realm? If I had not intervened, the siren could have easily drowned you!"

Nadir, formerly known as the Daroga of Mazenderan, crawled pitifully on the floor to kneel before raising his head and scrutinizing his interlocutor he recognized without difficulty. Erik, his former companion of misfortune, stood before him like a deadly shadow ready to pounce on its victim. In the light of the lantern lying on the ground, he discerned his face covered with a black mask, his dark hair dripping with water and his lean and deathly pale torso on which several whitish scars and wiry muscles could be guessed.

-"The siren? There's only you in these undergrounds!" cursed the daroga, coughing again. "What new evil device did you invent?"

-"Oh, nothing special," he announced with a neglected shrug, showing him a long reed. "It is a childish trick, but very convenient to breathe and sing underwater."

-"How could I have been so stupid! Your trick has almost cost me my life!" Nadir severely scolded. "And it has undoubtedly been fatal to others!"

Erik swept this silly remark with his hand as if it were an annoying insect buzzing in his ears.

-"I am not responsible for the siren's whereabouts!"

-"Erik, there is no siren!" he growled, his voice exasperated.

-"_Qui sait_ ? There is so much mystery in this world."

Not believing his ears, Nadir ran a hand over his face and his soaked hair, then got up on his feet unsteadily. Behind the mask, he could barely see Erik's look and there was something strange to speak to this inexpressive and impenetrable figure. He had the unpleasant feeling that the man who stood before him had nothing in common with the talented and insightful being he had once learned to know and appreciate in a certain way. Erik looked at him with disdain and arrogance as if he didn't know him anymore.

-"You promised me not to commit any crimes! Have you forgotten the rosy hours of Mazenderan? Do they not sufficiently swamp your thirst for blood and your hatred of humanity?"

At these words, Erik turned away with shame, images he had tried to erase from his memory resurfacing against his will. Blood… cries… fear… anger… despair… a dark and bottomless pit where he sank into the maze of madness that had almost consumed him…

-"Yes, I preferred to forget them… They remind me tirelessly of the monster that I am!" he whispered with sadness and bitterness. "Is this why you came… to poison old wounds that have never healed?"

-"No, I came to make sure you were not the ghost that haunts these places," Nadir revealed grimly. "You cannot know how much I am disappointed that all my suspicions prove correct. I kept hoping that this gaunt, harmful and disfigured creature that all the rumors speak about, was not the man I once saved from death."

-"_Hélas_, I'm afraid I have to plead guilty!"

-"_Quel gâchis_! You could have been a man respected and admired for his talent and genius," deplored Nadir whose shoulders slumped in despair. "I risked my life to save you and that's how you repaid my sacrifice, in becoming a ghost who extorted directors and terrorized the residents of the opera."

-"Life is cruel and unfair, my friend. You'll have to get used to," Erik taunted with mockery. "I'm just what men have done of me. Since my birth, humankind has always regarded me as a monster, a beast, a demon. Since my first cry, I had to fight against the ordeals that fate threw on my way! I finally opened my eyes and faced the sordid reality. I realized that I would never be respected as a human being, whatever is the extent of my talent or my power. So I stopped resisting and I accept the only existence I could pretend to have. I became the Phantom of the Opera!" he announced emphatically, straightening up proudly. "As you can see, nobody ever gets what he deserves, despite the efforts and sacrifices provided! I thought that after the torments you had endured in Persia, you had understood the lesson."

Erik's bitter words destabilized the Daroga who saw before his eyes the sorrows and pains that had littered his life. The loss of his beloved wife… the disease, decay and slow agony of his only son which had led to his death at the hands of Erik… his powerlessness facing the degradation and the descent into hell of an extraordinary man he considered as his friend… his own disgrace with the Shah and his imprisonment in the jails of Mazenderan… He had faced grief and suffering in his life, but unlike the Phantom, he had also lived ineffable happiness and joys that helped him to endure adversity.

Erik had never experienced such kindness and peace that could sustain him to relieve the sufferings he had endured. His whole existence was summed to the humiliations, hatred and misfortunes he had undergone at the hands of others. Since his birth, he had been forced to fight for his right to live. He was only putting into practice what he had learned from humanity. Why should he act differently with his torturers? Why show mercy and forgiveness to those who saw him as a monster unworthy to breathe? He had sworn to be nevermore humiliated or mistreated by those of the human race. He would not be a martyr! In his kingdom, he was the master and he dictated laws to which everybody had to submit on pain of chastisement. And it was not because his old friend reappeared that he would deny the calm and prosperous life he had built; especially at this fateful moment when he hoped to finally know the joy of finding a partner able to love him for himself.

-"It's too late for condemning your past mistakes," Nadir said, raising his head with determination. "However, you are responsible to me for the present. I am aware of the threats and extortion you are imposing on the directors, as well as the terror you spread throughout the establishment!"

-"You dare call managers these two simpletons who ignore all of the arts! And it's really not my fault if the ballerinas and stagehands are impressionable and superstitious. Anyway, I'm a ghost quite harmless, tolerant and uninterested in the world of the livings!" Erik pointed out wryly.

-"Uninterested? A monthly salary of twenty thousand francs seems far from being a proof of disinterest!"

-"Alas, we have to live and I have very expensive tastes!" he justified recklessly. "If you knew the huge sums wasted in futility by the administration, you would realize that my terms are very modest."

-"_Certes_, I'll grant you that, but what about your other misdeeds?"

-"Misdeeds?" he exclaimed falsely surprised and confused.

-"Do not play innocent! You know perfectly well who I'm talking about. Christine Daae…"

Hearing to this venerable name, Erik turned his head slightly, his senses on the alert like a predator smelling its prey, what Nadir didn't fail to notice.

-"Well, why are you talking of this girl to me?" the Phantom asked with an elusive shrug.

-"Because she has disappeared from her dressing room after the performance of _Faust_ and usually when someone vanished into thin air without a trace, you're to blame!"

-"Oh, this is a theater! It's commonplace to see young artists run off with their lovers."

-"Don't take me for an idiot!" the daroga growled. "Do you think I ignore the ambiguous and fallacious relationship that you have established with this poor innocent girl? I know perfectly well that you give her singing lessons, that she thinks you're an angel come down from Heaven to teach her music and that she worships you with all her soul," he enumerated severely as if gave a lecture to a disobedient child.

Erik's eyes narrowed in anger and the muscles of his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth. Swallowing his anger, he opened his mouth to justify himself, but was rudely interrupted by Nadir's invectives.

-"Don't try to deny it! I attended one of these amazing sessions and I can't imagine in what state of fervent ecstasy Christine should have been during those minutes when you mesmerized her with your voice and your music. How could you deceive and abuse the innocence of a vulnerable woman with such coldness and immorality? This sordid farce is unworthy of you!" he lamented ruefully.

Over the weeks he had searched the Opera on purpose of finding evidence about this Phantom that he wanted to expose, Nadir has been by chance near the chapel where Christine prayed and spoke to a being she called the Angel of Music. What a surprise when he had heard a soft, melodious voice answer her calls. This incident had aroused his curiosity and he had decided to keep a close eye on the girl to solve this mystery. During his investigations, he discovered the secret meetings she had with the so-called Angel and the day when he attended one of their singing lessons, his suspicions were confirmed without any doubt. There was only one man on Earth able to sing with the same grace and purity than the Seraphim.

-"_Très bien_, it's true, she's with me! But it is precisely to put an end to this make-believe that I invited her to my house. I want her to know who I am… to discover the unique world in which I live… to learn to trust me and love me for myself and not for what I would ever be! I don't want to be just a shadow for her, but a man of flesh and blood!"

-"It is by imprisoning her in your lair that you hope to win her affection!" Nadir emphasized with sarcasm.

-"She is not my prisoner!" the Phantom fumed, his rumbling voice resounding noisily in the deserted and silent cave. "She is in my company of her own free accord. Is it so inconceivable that a young woman can appreciate me despite of my appearance?"

-"Let her go, Erik!" he insisted.

-"She will go when it pleases her! It's not my role to give her orders!" the Ghost infuriated as his patience began to dwindle.

-"Erik, I beg you… We are not in Persia. It's not by coercion or deceit that a gentleman wins the heart of a lady. In spite of all your crimes and your vices, you have always been noble and gallant towards women, isn't it? Don't add this sin to the long list of your misbehaviors!"

At these words, Erik's shoulders stiffened while his hands closed into fists so tightly that his knuckles paled as he felt the rage rising in him.

-"Damn you, Daroga! This is not because I look like a monster I must act as such," he spat between his teeth. "You think I'll be able to force my repulsive carcass on her, to abuse her flesh and to do her violence to satisfy my selfish desire! I thought you knew me better than that!"

-"It's because I know that I'm afraid. I'm sure you won't harm her, at least intentionally. However, I know your emotional instability and how savagely you get carried away by your emotions and anger. In these moments of madness, you're not in your usual state; you don't control yourself anymore and commit horrible acts that you thought inconceivable in normal times. I have been confronted to it more than once," he pointed, placing a compassionate hand on Erik's shoulder. "You ignore what reaction you will have by living with a woman. You've never experienced this, how can you be sure that you won't commit a fatal error at the first vexation she will oppose you? You must release her before it is too late, Erik! Put an end to this pretense… or I will be forced to do it myself and tell her the truth about the atrocities you committed in the past!"

Enraged to be lectured as a novice, Erik turned with the speed of lightning and seized the daroga by the throat before forcing him to retreat until his heels extend beyond the edge of the shore and hang in mid-air. Unsteady and surprised, Nadir closed his hands around Erik's wrist in a vain attempt to free himself while he was suspended above the icy waters eager to swallow him.

-"Threats? You are far from being in a position to threaten me!" fumed the Phantom whose eyes shone with hate like two raging seas. "You're right on one point, though! We are no longer in Persia, Daroga! You have no authority in this country or any power over me! Remember that I was the Angel of Doom in Mazenderan and I still am! I can easily get rid of your life if you become too annoying. For your own safety, I urge you to let Christine out of our trivial quarrels! Am I clear enough?" he insisted, tightening his grip which almost suffocated his victim.

-"I will promise you one thing, Erik!" he croaked with difficulty under the fingers that strangled him. "If you do her any harm, no pit or cave will be deep enough to hide you. I will find you and I will make you pay for your crime!"

-"It's entirely to your honor. I expected no less from you, Nadir!"

With a quick and powerful movement, Erik brought back his prey on land and sent him flying with disdain on the ground as if he were a rag doll. Stunned and panting, the Daroga rose with difficulty on one arm and on his knees, massaging his sore throat while he breathed the fresh air greedily. He had committed an unforgivable and gross mistake by underestimating the threat posed by Erik and by assuming he wouldn't dare lay a hand on him because of their old friendship. He had also forgotten that despite his skinny physique, he had colossal strength and superhuman speed that had been fatal to more than a man in Persia.

-"I think we have nothing more to tell each other, Daroga. Return to the world above and forget everything you know about me! I am no longer the broken and lost young man you knew in Persia. You've perhaps saved me from death once, but know that if you interfere in my plans, I wouldn't hesitate a moment to eliminate you. Nothing and no one will stand between me and Christine! Cross again the threshold of my domain without being invited and I won't stop the siren to accomplish her task. If Erik's secrets cease to be Erik's secrets, it will be a bad lookout for a goodly number of the human race! You have been warned, my old friend," he said, abandoning the prostrate form on the shore.

When Nadir had recovered his senses and his strength, he straightened up; and sitting on his heels, he realized Erik had disappeared. Squinting and blinking, he peered carefully into the darkness hoping to see the way in which he had vanished, but it was in vain. He wasn't the lover of trapdoors and the master of illusionists without reason. He could disappear at will like a demon, so that he wondered if the rumors assuming he was the son of the devil were not genuine in the end.

The daroga's shoulders slumped in discouragement and he shook his head drearily. The man he had met had nothing in common with the disturbed and bewildered boy whom he had previously won the friendship. The life of solitude, seclusion and suffering he was forced to accept had transformed him into an unfeeling, calculating, ruthless and contemptuous being. When they have met ten years ago, Nadir had initially considered Erik like an austere, arrogant, haughty, irascible and especially dangerous individual, however, after having cohabited several weeks with him, his opinion had changed and he had realized that he was not inherently evil and cruel. Driven by his survival instinct, this man simply had to learn to harden himself and fight against a hostile world that saw him as a horrible monster easy to humiliate.

However, this shell was not infallible and Nadir had sometimes witnessed the compassion, affection and kindness which he could show to the wretched and the outcast. More than once he had faced the proof of this empathy when he had seen Erik crying over the fate he had inflicted on the little sultana, when he had sympathized with the tragic decline of his son, Reza, or when he was lamenting on the bloodthirsty monster he had become in the hands of the Shah and Khanum. In light of this fact, the Daroga had tried to feed, maintain and restore these rare sparks of humanity that somehow resisted in the spiritual storm that the young man was living at that time.

Every human must choose between two destinies, one of Good, which for Erik would inevitably littered with hardship and suffering because of his appearance, or one of Evil, the easiest and least painful that would permit him to avenge all the wrongs he had borne rather than hunker down and forgive without a protest. Nadir had believed that the friendship and the sympathy he had showed him when the powerful strove to corrupt and to submit him to their rule in their own interest, would have helped him to overcome his contempt and disgust of humanity, so that he would choose the right path. He had tried his best to preserve from decadence and degradation a unique being blessed with an immeasurable genius who could have become one of the most respected and noble mind of human race. However, he had just seen that his efforts had been unsuccessful. Erik had succumbed to the lure of hatred and had submitted to the Darkness whose putrid miasma had smothered the few seeds of compassion and goodness buried in the depths of his soul. There was no doubt he had chosen to take the easiest and the most sinister path.

The Persian feared the ominous dramas and vile acts that the Phantom could foment in a field of maneuver as large and rigged as the Opera with the help of his extraordinary talents, his unlimited knowledge and his boundless imagination. His old friend would have been unable to do any harm to an innocent young girl, but he ignored what reactions could have the stranger he had met in this underground. Nadir shuddered with fear as he thought about the tragedies the future had in store for them.

* * *

**Another**** note:** A little precision: in my story, Erik has maybe Gerard Butler appearance, but he hasn't his attractive physiognomy. Let's tell that it's Gerik as in the movie concerning his physical characteristics, but with the thinness akin to Lerik. _Bref,_ you just had to imagine Gerik a lot more thin and with a musculature more wiry and skinny… and no suntan :) but a sickly paleness. _Voilà!_


	6. Chapter 6 : Mystery After Gala Night

**_A/N:_**_ Phew, sorry for this delay, but this chapter has shown to be very tough to finish off! It has endured many modifications, additions, withdrawals, changes in narrations and in theme, but at last I finally defeated it! I thank you for your patience and I wish to all of you happy holidays for Christmas and the New Year… I remain as always, my dear readers, your obedient servant, Taedium Vitae…_

* * *

~ Chapter 6 ~  
– Mystery After Gala Night –

* * *

Still dripping with icy water, Erik unlocked the complex mechanism closing the door and was back in the coziness of his home whose peace hadn't been disturbed by this unfortunate incident. The few sparse candles he had left were still burning steadily and no noise arose in the austere and reassuring silence of the night. When he crossed the threshold, he heard the muffled ringing of the dining room's clock that sounded the four strokes of the hour. Dawn will arrive in several hours, but the night was far from over for the Phantom. He still had an important task to accomplish before the awakening of the Opera house and the arrival of the directors.

After having removed his shoes in the hallway, he walked across the room with a determined tread and his eyes focused on their own will on the door of Christine's chamber. His hurried stride slowed and he stopped dead in the middle of the room. He would have liked to push the door to make sure she was doing well, but it was really rude to break unannounced into the lodgings of a lady. Carefully, he stepped forward and pressed his ear against the wooden panel to probe the rumors of the room. He knew that eavesdropping was equally reprehensible, but he wanted to be absolutely sure that his angel was resting peacefully. Closing his eyes, he concentrated and he seemed to perceive the indistinct rustlings of the sheets, the creaking of the bed and even the light whisper of a slow breath. She was still asleep and would probably not awake until early morning. Fully reassured on Christine's quiet sleep, he stroked dreamily the wooden panel and walked to his room to fulfill his other duties.

In his vast wardrobe, he gathered clean clothes before going to the bathroom contiguous to his chamber. He had a quick wash, put on his dry suit and sat in front of his small dressing table to put the finishing touches on his clothing.

With moves similar to those of an automaton, he took in his cabinet drawer his white mask of which he possessed five copies in reserve, grabbed a bottle filled with special glue and fixed the piece of leather on his face without even the help of a mirror. He performed this exercise for so long that it had become as familiar and ordinary as lacing his shoes. However, it had not always been like this. During the first few weeks he started to execute this ritual, he was forced to use a small hand mirror to make sure his manipulations were correct and that the mask was perfectly held in place. These moments had always proved to be distasteful and humiliating, so that he had hastened to learn by heart the proper gestures and the required amount of product that he should use to spare himself this horrible passage before the looking-glass. It was the same process with his shaving that he performed blindly and freehand with simple brief glances at his reflection to make sure that the finishes were suitable.

Throughout his childhood and youth he had been accustomed to wear a full face mask tied to his head, an inheritance from his mother, who had fashioned this strap of cloth as his first garment to hide the monster born from her belly. Since his birth, she had never borne to see a shred of her son's face, to contemplate the charming features of her late husband stand next to the grotesque deformity of a demon. She had chosen to hide this abominable vision behind a mask in order not to suffer the punishment and mockery that God inflicted her every day. All these years, this simple artifact had become a natural part of his being like a second skin and Erik had never objected, nor even dare to question or consider its utility as if it was a subject totally taboo! After his flight from home and during his travels, he realized that this accessory was the only device able to offer him a relative degree of protection against mockery and hostile stares, so that it was impossible for him to walk without wearing it, even when he was alone in his house.

However, during his stay in Persia several years ago, his mask had proved to be a terrible nuisance, a hindrance and above all a suffering. The suffocating furnace of the Persian sun made him sweat a lot, so that his mask turned into a real oven. The humidity, the heat and the constant frictions of the leather damaged and wounded the already fragile and abject skin of his deformity, but also the healthy and untouched part of his face. Desiring to preserve the little normalcy he had, he had fashioned a mask that only covered the malformed part of his head to limit the damage, but also to improve his comfort. With this new device, he suffered less from the heat, breathed more freely and could speak more clearly with his opponents. He remarked only benefits in this change and was infuriated to not have thought of it earlier. Nadir had even confessed that it made him more pleasant, surrounding him with a mysterious and almost seductive aura as he unveiled a rather pleasant part of his face. Erik had greeted with sarcasm and disdain this supposedly flattering comment of his comrade, and even now, he had a sardonic smile at the memory. His friend was often terribly awkward with his words, what he has mocked and sneered many times at his expense.

In the Phantom's mind, it made no difference that his face was wholly or partially deformed. He saw himself as a monster because his appearance, but mainly because of his abject soul stained by the blood of innocents he has tortured, by the crimes, perversions and deceits he had done in his life. Even if he had possessed the beauty of Adonis, he would consider himself as a demon. His vile murders, his sins and deceptions had become much more nefarious and despicable than his appearance. His deformity was originally the first symptom of a disease that now corrupted and devoured his entire mind. The Daroga had once tried to save Erik from the decadence and barbarism where he sank insidiously day after day, he had almost succeeded. By his immense kindness and unfailing friendship, Nadir had managed to preserve a part of Erik's consciousness, preventing him from being completely consumed by the madness that would have undoubtedly led to his loss.

Nadir… The Phantom let out a weary sigh at the thought of their painful and icy meeting. It wasn't with enthusiasm that he had treated so harshly and cruelly his old friend, this honest man who had the courage to offer him his friendship and save his life at the expense of his own. His reasons had been simply pragmatic. He had to keep Nadir away from his machinations and his plans, if he wanted to complete them without problem. The Persian was a cunning, intelligent, insightful, curious and stubborn detective who let nothing and no one stand in his way when he smelled a track. If he didn't make believe to the Daroga that they were enemies from now on, the calm life that Erik has painfully built himself over the years would be wiped out, without forgetting that Christine would be torn away from him. He didn't provide so much effort and hope to see his dreams fall apart, especially at this critical moment when his happiness was within his reach. They may have been allies in the past, but now a world separated them. Erik didn't exist in the same reality as the common run of people; he lived in a realm of music and magic of which Christine was the worshiped and venerated goddess. He was ready to achieve all the atrocities and crimes to protect and fulfill his desires.

Of course, he had no intention of hurting Nadir. After all, he was still his conscience. However, instill fear in him and scold him of implacable threats should be enough to deter him to poke his nose near his house, at least in the immediate future. There was no doubt that sooner or later the Daroga would realize the mystification of which he was the victim and he would understand that he had nothing to fear from the wrath of the Ghost, or almost nothing. Erik hadn't lied on one point, however. If Nadir became too burdensome, he wouldn't be embarrassed to remove him from the scene, without demean himself to the point of murder. He wasn't so beastly and devoid of honor and respect to kill his only friend! Nevertheless, there were many ways to silence a boring actor whose presence was not at all helpful to the success of the story.

With a sly smirk, he put the final adjustments to his mask and his wig before leaving the bathroom and returned to his chamber where he sat behind his large desk. Drawing a candle nearer, he seized his favorite pen and several sheets of paper rimmed in black that he used specifically to write the commands he sent to the Opera's occupants, in particular to the managers. The extraordinary events of the evening and the impediments he had encountered would force him to write numerous letters to the various persons concerned by his actions, which would inevitably disrupt the organization of the next days. He let out a mocking chuckle at the thought of the confusion and panic of the administrators when they would discover his nocturnal exploits and his latest mischiefs. With a triumphant gesture, he plunged the tip of his pen in the ink and began to write his demands and instructions concerning the organization of the following days.

After more than an hour of work, Erik closed his last letter with wax on which he affixed his skull-shaped seal. Wiping the ink from his fingers, he considered with satisfaction the five letters containing his guidelines intended for each protagonists of this dark and tragic story. The opera house wouldn't awake before another two hours, which gave him enough time to relax by the fire, taking a light meal before returning to the forefront and play the conspirators.

Comfortably sit in his armchair in the salon by the fireplace where a nice fire was crackling, Erik was sipping a cup of steaming tea while trying to focus on the open book on his lap. But his mind was completely and irresistibly attracted by another, far more interesting and attractive _chef-d'œuvre_ that lived in his house. For almost half an hour, his eyes kept oscillating between the lines of his text and the door of Christine's room as if he hoped that his vision would reach through walls to contemplate the sleeping form of the girl. The ringing of the clock finally tore him out of his trance and he cursed this sudden carelessness and annoying sentimentality. He could not afford to be distracted or indolent in this critical moment when he needed all his strength and abilities to accomplish his purposes. He had the curious and irritating feeling of not being anymore the puppeteer, but rather the dummy whose strings were pulled by Christine without her knowledge. If only she knew the immense and absolute power she held on him! Near her, he was nothing more than the slave of her love, devoted to all her desires and obeying blindly to her every word! He was as malleable as clay in her hands that could do of him whatever she wanted without any protests. Yes, if she understood that he was as docile and harmless as a little mouse in her presence, maybe she would be less afraid of him, but she could also turn this knowledge against him to abuse and destroy him. He had no doubt that his sweet Angel was incapable of any cruelty or deception, she was beyond the pettiness of mortals; however he should be careful not to be blinded by his feelings. He knew better than anyone the lies and tricks that humans were ready to foment to achieve their aims.

Exhaling a weary and frustrated sigh, he closed with resolution his eyes, then his book. His unsuccessful procrastination would lead nowhere and made him lose his time, not to mention they tortured him unnecessarily. For now, a greater duty required his attention. He returned to his room and put on a more appropriate outfit to make a stealth trip in the world of above where he had to deliver his imperative letters. As he extinguished the unneeded candles and lamps of the living room, his eyes again fixed on Christine's door. He knew he would never succeed to focus on his task without throwing a quick glance at the young woman to make sure she was fine.

In spite of his scruples and the impertinence of his act, he quietly opened the door and crossed the threshold of the small room plunged into darkness by which he was undisturbed. His eyes focused without hesitation on Christine as driven by an invisible force or a primitive instinct which it was impossible to resist. Like a ghost, he walked the short distance between them, then, as a priest honoring a goddess, he knelt on the floor beside her bed and silently admired her angelic face lost in the realm of dreams. She was lying on her side in a fetal position and her elegant slender hands were huddled under her chin. Her long hair spread in a cascade of curls on the pillow to disappear under the down she had pulled over her shoulders. Her long dark lashes drew a small fan on each of her lovely rosy cheeks and her gorgeous lips were parted on her breath deep and regular. She was so beautiful, so delicate, so divine, so… perfect!

His poor heart pounding between his ribs, Erik raised a clumsy and timid trembling hand to her face and the tips of his gloved fingers brushed her forehead white and silky as the petals of a lily. Through the thin leather of his gloves, he felt the soothing warmth of her skin and he would have given anything to also feel its softness. Slowly, he leaned over her and, closing his eyelids to savor this moment, he deeply breathed in the heady scent of flowers that always fluttered around her. Over the months, he had stolen dozens of ribbons, shawls and handkerchiefs impregnated of the familiar and sweet smell of Christine, which he often brought to his nose in his moments of serenity. However, these fragrant fetishes were incomparable to the pleasure he felt to breathe directly the rich fragrance emanating from her skin.

Exhaling the breath he retained without realizing it, he opened his eyes and went into raptures at the splendor that was offered to his gaze. He had always believed that perfection was not part of this world, but in front of such beauty, he realized that he was completely mistaken.

-"Christine… Christine… Sleep, my Angel of Music… May your dreams become real when you awake," he whispered tenderly stroking his fingers along her temple.

At these words, Christine stirred in her sleep and her serene face contorted into a worried pout as if she was conscious that he was leaving her alone.

-"Do not worry, I will never abandon you!" he assured with a tender smile. "I will be back quickly."

Instantly, she let out a long sigh and her twisted features relaxed again at the sound of his soft and melodious voice. He brushed delicately and almost imperceptibly her glorious hair before straightening and walking towards the threshold, but he changed his mind suddenly. Bending near the small stove, he revived the meager embers by throwing a handful of twigs and coals in the hearth. He was accustomed to the cold and humidity of the cellars unlike Christine and he would never tolerate that she got sick because of him. Satisfied, he laid a last look on the sleeping girl and left the room that he closed carefully.

**X X X X**

Squeezing the packet of letters slipped into the pocket of his coat, Erik crossed the deserted basements, endless staircases and silent corridors of the _Palais Garnier_ as a shadow, or more accurately, a Phantom. He liked to walk through his domain at night when everyone was asleep and that quietness reigned between the walls. He was then free to go where he wanted, to do what he wanted and he was never disturbed while he was stealing provisions in kitchens, delivering his mail or preparing new surprises for the inhabitants of the Opera house. Although some were annoyed by his nocturnal visits, nobody dared to oppose the actions of the Ghost. At the beginning of their mandate, the directors had tried to organize guards and patrols during the night, but it had proved ineffective and expensive, not to mention that Erik, to show his displeasure, had been more intractable and Machiavellian, causing many more incidents and chaos throughout the theater than normally. The directors hastened to abandon this idea and resigned themselves to let events happen as it had always been, in other words, to allow free reign to the Phantom. Consequently, Erik had immediately calmed down, except for his occasional nasty tricks to maintain his bad reputation.

After a short detour through the stables to ensure that _César_ had returned to his stall, he went to the wing reserved for the dormitories and refectories of the opera's permanent residents. They weren't very numerous, mostly orphans or poor people who cannot afford a real home. Nearly half of the ballet was composed of these poor and lost girls that Madame Giry, secretly helped by Erik, had chosen to take under her responsibility by providing them a roof and a job at the Academy of music. The Phantom had always had a weakness for fragile, wounded and vulnerable beings, whether they were animals or even humans, which, on this last point, was in total contradiction with his usual principles. It was viscerally unbearable for him to see any creature abused by the cruelty and stupidity of others. He hated the human race, and yet he took pity on the outcasts she created. This inexplicable compassion was an ambiguous trait of his character that he sometimes had difficulties to understand and that often irritated him.

Climbing the flight of stairs dimly lit, he reached one of the housings which he unlocked easily with his skeleton key and walked inside the room with the boldness of a burglar. The place was set in darkness except for a long candle placed on a table next to a couch on which slept Madame Giry, covered with silk brocade with the pattern of flowers and birds, an open book abandoned on her knees. The ballet mistress suddenly emerged from her capricious slumber and stifled a cry as she noticed the imposing dark figure that stood at the entrance of the _boudoir_.

-"Good Lord…" she exclaimed with her hand on her heart.

-"Quite the contrary, Madame!" he quipped with a treacherous smile.

-"Do you never sleep?" she grumbled as she rose before smoothing the skirt of her evening gown she had not even removed.

-"I could ask you the same question!" he retorted. "Your rest doesn't seem to be calmer than mine!"

He walked with a proud pace into the cramped room and nonchalantly passed in front of her, his heavy cloak enveloping him like the wings of a crow usually an omen of misfortune.

-"How can I sleep peacefully knowing that you are forming stupendous and unbelievable plan for Christine's career and that you are ready to go to war with the entire opera to reach your objective!" she scolded by observing his visitor strolling into the dark room. "I just hope that Christine's honor and welfare won't have to suffer because of your crazy ideas and ambitious machinations. She is much more fragile, innocent and vulnerable than most other girls who live at the opera," she announced before seeing the Phantom back stiffen.

At these words, Erik turned his head slightly to peer at Madame Giry while his eyes narrowed in annoyance. How dared she criticize his plans or discuss his behavior towards Christine! She thought him so depraved and inhumane to desecrate the purity of an innocent girl for his pleasure and selfishness. _Quelle ignorance_! She was providing the same discourse than the Daroga! She condemned his conduct without knowing anything about the profound and special relationship he shared with the girl, merely judging him just from rumors and prejudices surrounding his ghostly character. Nobody would ever understand who he was and what he wanted, except Christine!

-"It's not your business what I do with mine!" he spat viciously turning with the speed of a cat.

Straightening to his full height, he approached the ballet mistress that he scrutinized with a threatening look and forced her to retreat against one of the walls of the room which seemed to close in around her. Cornered against the wall, she supported the sharp and cold gaze of the Ghost, trying not to show him her fear.

-"I've never had to complain about your services, Antoinette! But if you overstep your role, I will not hesitate to remind you who is the master of this place!"

-"I do not overstep anything, Erik! I care only about the fate of a person who is dear to me! You can try to intimidate me if it amuses you, but all your threats won't prevent me to continue to do what I think is necessary and right!"

-"Right? Be careful with the words you use, they may have a different definition depending on who you are talking to!" he uttered with a sneer before turning away.

He walked absent-mindedly across the room where his eyes wandered while Madame regained composure and her breathing that had frozen without she realized it.

-"You have nothing to fear regarding Christine, but you should rather worry about the fate of the other inhabitants of the Opera!"

At these words, he took out of the tail of his cloak a bundle of letters which he handed to Antoinette.

-"These are my instructions for the next day. The first and the second one should be sent respectively to Madam Carlotta and the _Vicomte de Chagny_ in the shortest possible time."

-"The _Vicomte_?" she exclaimed. "But why? What has he done?"

-"It's absolutely none of your business!" he barked with a menacing look. "Just take care of this task without question. Am I clear?"

-"_Oui_, _parfaitement_," she obeyed, stepping back frightened.

-"Good! The last one is addressed to you and will inform you about the organization of the following days," he concluded by giving the letters to Madame Giry who took them hesitantly.

From his other hand sprang out a little purse that he threw carelessly on the meridian, revealing a few coins.

-"This should cover the cost of delivery of your talented and discreet messengers," he pointed out, referring to the young street children whom she used the services to distribute the Phantom's unusual missives.

She leaned forward to take the money and expected that Erik would have disappeared when she would raise her eyes, as it always happened during their meeting. However, when she straightened, he still stood in front of her with his proud and imperious poise like a cat eyeing cruelly a cornered mouse.

-"Is there anything else to serve you?" she asked to break the silence that hung in the austere room.

-"Have you any knowledge of a person foreign to the Opera house lurking in the corridors and asking questions?"

-"Well, I… Yes, indeed, for several weeks, a man regularly comes at the _Palais Garnier_ where he wanders for hours talking with all the employees. He is interested in every little detail about the development of the building or the most trivial anecdotes existing between these walls. He was arrested several times by the security officer while prying in artists' lodgings and in the fifth cellar. The managers seem to say he is a kind of illuminated man fascinated by the magic behind the scenes and the luxury of the Opera. They told us not to worry too much about him and since he didn't cause any trouble, we could let him roam in certain part of the building. The guard doesn't trust him and always keep an eye on him. I believe he is Persian."

Turning away to face a high dresser covered with photos, papers and books, Erik crossed his arms behind his back and thought about the revelations of Madame Giry. Quickly, he gathered the pieces of the puzzle and assembled the most likely scenario of the Daroga's history that had led to their improbable meeting. After his imprisonment, Nadir had probably wanted to rebuild his life away from the treacheries, atrocities and violence of Persia and he naturally set his sights on the City of Light, Paris. For a music lover as him, it was obligatory to attend an opera in the magnificent _Palais Garnier_ when he had the opportunity. It was easy to assume that during one of these evenings, he overheard regulars mention the existence of a ghost haunting the premises. It was enough to excite the curiosity and suspicion of the former police officer who knew when to listen and follow his instincts. This resulted in weeks of investigation and exploration of the building which had eventually led him to the hidden door of the fifth cellar and to the lakeshore.

-"Did he mention my name or the Ghost?"

-"I think not, but I know he has interrogated Joseph Buquet in detail a few weeks ago. It is very possible that they discussed the Phantom's actions, as the machinist speaks only of you."

Erik let out a displeased roar before giving a stern look over his shoulder to Antoinette who recoiled with surprise.

-"I hadn't really worried about it, since you don't like that other people interfere with your affairs. However, if this is important to you, I can investigate?"

-"No, it's not necessary. I just noticed this man roving in the corridors and he intrigued me," he eluded, sweeping away her proposal with a negligent gesture. "For now, I enjoin you to simply deliver this mail in the shortest time and to follow my instructions until further notice. Am I clear?"

-"Yes, perfectly," she nodded, looking down on the letters she held in her hands. "Can I at least know how is… Christine…" she stammered when she looked up to find that she was alone.

The Phantom had disappeared without a sound, or even air movement as if the man of flesh and blood with which she was speaking had transformed into a silent shadow. The atmosphere had suddenly cooled down and Antoinette tightened up her shawl around her shoulders, suppressing a shiver that was more due to anxiety than cold.

-"I hope you know what you are doing, Erik," she murmured, inspecting the walls, convinced that he was hiding behind one of them to listen.

Grabbing her coat in the small hallway, she set off in search of the street kids who usually dawdled near the Opera house, so they could deliver as quickly as possible the Phantom missives.

**X X X X**

Leaving Madame Giry to her task, Erik followed one of his secret passageways hidden behind the walls carved in gold, under the long marble staircases and within the false ceilings decorated with effigies of gods and goddesses. He smiled with nostalgia in memory of the years of effort and conception he had displayed during the construction of the Palace to include his own network of tunnels and traps that allowed him to move without being seen in every corner of the edifice. He had been able to build a labyrinth in a labyrinth, of which he was particularly proud. Charles Garnier himself hadn't realized anything during the building, but he had to admit that the architect had other things to worry about than watching the occasional embellishments, unexpected adjustments and other minor changes that engendered the fulfillment of his plans. All maintenance, coordination and planning on location were ultimately ordered and managed by Erik that Garnier had hired as foreman, assistant and right hand man. His recruitment had besides been a strange and unbelievable twist of fate. As chance would have it, the two men had encountered, at different times, the same tutor, Professor Guizot, who had decided in his last days to confide to Garnier, his most promising pupil, the unusual experience he had lived with a disfigured child with prodigious gifts. When they met, the young entrepreneur had immediately recognized the masked man who presented himself at his door and, knowing the exceptional genius and unlimited potential of Erik, he chose to associate him with his huge project despite his juvenile age.

For ten years, he had lived day and night on the scaffoldings, between the framework, among the girders and marble blocks, working tirelessly to erect this building dedicated to art, this temple dedicated to his sole god, The Music. For Erik, this period was rather peaceful and prosperous, despite the war and the uprising of the Commune of Paris, in which he showed no interest, except to protect from vandals and looters his still newborn Palace. Entrenched behind the monument's walls during the months of conflict, he discovered the perfect place where he could hide from the cruel eyes of the world, where he would be at peace, surrounded by beauty and music. The shores of the underground lake offered him the ideal area to build his house. After weeks of stealing various materials on site and all the necessary furnishings in the rooms of the palace, he had crafted a comfortable home in the bowels of his most magnificent masterpiece.

The legend of the ghost haunting the basement of the building had begun at the time as he built his refuge. Workers claimed that unexplained thefts occurred on the construction site and people in the neighborhood told that strange noises and ghostly, sinister chants arose from the depths of the monument during the night. In the beginning, Erik consider it only as a joke that made him laugh greatly, but upon reflection, he thought it as a useful way to be heard and obey by the managers and get some favors that would have never been granted him in normal times. He also had to admit that he felt a morbid satisfaction to exasperate and torment the uneducated administrators and this tyrannical diva with mediocre and tasteless talent. Thus was born the Phantom of the Opera.

Climbing a narrow ladder with rudimentary bars, he finally reached his destination, the director's office. He skimmed his fingers on the mechanism disposed on the wooden wall and a slight clinking was heard before a little panel opens slightly. With the agility of a cat, he slipped into the opening to get behind the two desks occupied by Messrs. Moncharmin and Firmin. Erik stifled a mocking laugh when he thought about the small fortune they had disbursed to change the locks of the administrative department when he didn't even use the doors. He pulled from the lapel of his coat his notes that he placed almost triumphantly on each desk. His task accomplished, Erik left the room, closing carefully the concealed door whose tiny interstices merged perfectly with the painted and sculpted frills of the wall, making it invisible to anyone.

He followed the dark corridor for several meters and reached the sewing workshop through a sliding door placed at the back of a closet in which were stored old costumes. There was no need to hide any longer, since the inhabitants of the Opera house were asleep. He could walk safely in the sumptuous halls, if he nonetheless showed a modicum of vigilance. The rare occasions in which he had been seen had occurred during his leisurely evening strolls when the Academy had just opened its doors. At that time when he made his_ début _as a ghost, he didn't always care about the other casual night owls wandering in the gloomy basements, so that he had been spotted several times against his will. However, these novice blunders didn't occur anymore. Nowadays, he knew perfectly how to disappear, appear and be invisible at will, and if he was seen, it was because he had decided so. Over the years, he had developed a strange and effective sixth sense that always warned him of the presence of a person even if he was far away. This ability had helped him more than once and he had trained and sharpened it, so that nothing escaped his perception. Nothing, except Nadir! How could he possibly have overlooked him all this time! He had to be blind or become negligent with age! However, he had other things to worry about in recent weeks between the execution of Christine's first night in the lead and the nomination of the new directors who resisted his requests.

Silent and elusive as a shadow, he went down two floors to the kitchen where he made his shopping. With the presence of Christine in his home, he had to enrich his larder with some additional and refined food which she liked. He stole a selection of vegetables and fresh fruit, an assortment of meat, different spices, a few bottles of grenadine and lemonade, sweets and pastries, all these foods that he never needed. Usually, he was satisfied with a piece of bread, some cheese and dried fruit when the urge to eat seized him. He had no appetite and often neglected his stomach. But it was out of question that Christine died of hunger while she remained with him. The chef, _Jérôme_, would have an unpleasant surprise in the morning when he'd discover that his reserves were looted during the night, but Erik gave him a generous financial payment to compensate for his losses.

Loading his bundle of food on his shoulder, Erik headed for the backstage where was expecting a little last obligation that was far from displeasing him unlike the previous ones. He walked up the familiar and poorly lit passage to an isolated door painted with a beautiful pattern of roses entwined with ivy. Christine's dressing room opened to let him in and he placed his bag at the foot of the large mirror. After increasing the flame of a gas burner, he closely scrutinized the room in search of something that he would keep in memory of Christine's first triumph. He walked by the toilet table on which lay the rose with the black ribbon he had offered next to the jewelry box containing the diamond _parure_ that she had worn for the gala night. Nor the ribbons, nor the combs, nor the lace handkerchiefs satisfied him and he slipped into the _boudoir_ where he hoped to find the gem that would please him. He noticed at first glance her midnight blue dress dangling carefully on a hanger against the screen. He stroked dreamily the shiny outfit, remembering the sublime vision of Christine wrapped in this sparkling and iridescent cascade of silk, satin, crystal beads and sequins. She had been more beautiful and majestic than the queens of all world empires.

Behind the curtain, he saw on a high pedestal a pair of long white gloves that immediately captivated his interest. Among all his collection of fetish object, he hadn't yet had the opportunity to add gloves, what he was going to quickly resolve. Without the slightest hesitation or embarrassment, he subtilized this little souvenir impregnated with the girl's scent and aura. He returned to the living room and, after consideration, he also took a blue ribbon and a hair comb decorated with a butterfly, although he already possessed dozens of them. While he put his loot in his pocket, he heard footsteps approached in the hallway and the door handle was suddenly shaken. Without wasting a second, he grabbed his sack of food and rushed into the secret passage behind the mirror that he hastened to close.

Furious at being interrupted, he cast a glance in the room to find out the identity of the intruder who was walking so early in this remote part of the theater. His anger dwindled when he recognized the young Giry standing on the threshold, wearing her simple cotton nightgown and a large bunch of keys in her hand.

-"Christine? Christine? Are you there?" she called; entering the dressing room plunged in darkness.

Under the Phantom's puzzled and curious stare, Meg stealthily and gracefully approached the dressing table where she put her skeleton keys before gently taking the rose that she brushed with her fingers and brought to her nose to inhale its sweet aroma. Then, her gaze was attracted by the jewelry box of which she lifted the lid with a trembling hand. With a suffocated gasp, her eyes widened and she put a hand to her heart when she discovered the sumptuous jewels sparkling brightly like stars. She touched one diamond with the tip of her trembling index finger to make sure it was real and not an illusion.

-"Amazing! The Viscount had to pay a fortune for this marvel!"

Behind the mirror, Erik stiffened with indignation as he heard this inappropriate and untruthful comment, his fists tightening with hatred and contempt around his canvas bag. The _Vicomte_, this insolent dimwit, was just able to bask and enjoy Christine's triumph for his own sake, strutting in front of the _bourgeoisie_ as a peacock proud and haughty. He had no interest in music or the young girl's talent. He saw in her only a woman of flesh whom he could use to entertain himself and satisfy some immoral pleasures. Erik knew that kind of pervert; he had seen enough of them during his years at the Opera house and his travels through Europe and Asia. These men of money and power assumed that everything was allowed to them with impunity and the commoners simply had to bow to their vile whims without making any protest or complaint. This so-called noble suitor would be more inclined to despoil and dishonor Christine than to cover her with gift and to cherish her innocent and generous spirit.

With a deep breath, Erik swallowed his anger and calmed the fury seething in his veins. Meg had just spoken without knowledge, however, she should pay attention to the deductions and speculations she spread, before one of these unpleasant rumors irritate the Phantom. It was better that he departed before committing any malice to the young ballerina, what he would regret immediately. Throwing his provisions sack on his shoulder, he plunged into the secret passage to return to his house where was resting his beloved Angel of Music.

**X X X X**

While the Phantom walked away from the dressing room to regain his lair, Meg continued her inspection and research. After closing the jewelry box, she went to the _boudoir,_ again calling the name of her friend, but no answer came. All she found was her opulent blue dress hanging on the screen. Meg had searched all the opera house, or at least all the hiding places where Christine used to take refuge, without finding any sign of the girl, of which she was worried. Her friend left the theater very rarely and even less at night. She had no relationship outside the walls of the building with whom she could have leave, except the _Vicomte_ that she had seen leave the theater alone sooner in the evening and this strange and elusive teacher, this supposed angel of music of which she had spoken.

The ballerina's blood froze suddenly in her veins. And what if her misgivings and presentiments had proven to be real? And what if this Spirit had finally turned out to be a man without scruples as she had feared, perhaps had he come to the _Palais Garnier_ to abduct Christine and receive the reward of his work? She might be in danger, facing a crazy megalomaniac who had imprisoned her in his dark dungeon to abuse her! Meg felt stupid and guilty for not having warned her girlfriend, not having shared her concerns and not having warned her against the villains who frequented the Opera house for the sole purpose of enjoying and taking advantage of the girls' charms. She could have protected Christine if she had spoken instead of remaining silent, now it was too late.

Her heart pounding and her mind racing, Meg ran out of the room and rushed to her mother. Without bothering to knock, she darted into the apartment illuminated by several candles and lamps.

-"_Maman? Maman!_" she called in a tone almost hysterical.

-"I'm here, my dear," Antoinette replied in a faint and weary voice.

The ballerina saw her mother sitting on the meridian and she came to sit beside her.

-"Mom, I think a horrible event happened," she lamented. "Christine has disappeared! I think it's her teacher or angel who has abducted her!"

-"I know!"

-"What! You know it? But how?"

-"He told me!" Madame Giry exclaimed, brandishing Erik's letter. "He did it… He finally dared to take her with him in the cellar! This event augurs nothing good!" she grieved, helpless and tormented.

Without understanding who or what she was talking about, Meg took the message of her mother's inert hands and she recognized at first glance that it was one of the famous and dreaded notes of the Phantom.

_Dear Antoinette,_

_As always, you have proved to be a treasure of excellence and dedication tonight. I cannot tell you how much your services are valued. Know that I would be forever indebted to the assistance you have given me to develop this crucial night. The Phantom is not a thankless and will reward your loyalty._

_But for now, other cases must be absolutely settled._

_Firstly, do not worry about Christine. I took her to my house where she is perfectly safe. She will spend the next few days with me and will be back for the next performance of _La Juive_. Do not worry for rehearsals! She will know her role in detail._

_Concerning the directorial buffoons and the irritating Madam Carlotta, the messages that I asked you to deliver should muzzle them momentarily. If they do not want that a colossal disaster crashed on their heads, they have a vested interest to follow my instructions._

_As for the vain_ Vicomte_, he will not accept being ousted so roughly by a complete stranger. It is a safe bet that he will require some explanation and the name of the person who has ridiculed him. Give him neither one nor the other! Antoinette, your duty will be to keep him away from the Opera house and prevent him from prying around. I leave you _carte blanche_ to find the appropriate means to expel him from the stage. But most of all, I insisted that he should not speak to Joseph Buquet or the Persian visitor. They must not meet under any circumstances. If this unfortunate event occurs, my wrath will be unparalleled. Remember that my threats are never to be taken lightly._

_You've always served me with efficiency and discretion; I hope that the terms of our agreement can continue as flawlessly in the future. In anticipation of our next confrontation, I remain, dear Madam, your most humble and obedient servant._

_O.G._

The girl's eyes widened with amazement as she realized the terrible implications that this simple note engendered. The suspicions she had about the relationship her mother had with the Phantom and her fears about Christine were all confirmed by this tiny piece of paper.

-"You said he took her…" Meg repeated, shaking her head in bewilderment as she tried to understand the imbroglio that was merging in her mind. "So that means that the Phantom is Christine's teacher… her Angel of Music… You knew it and you didn't warn her! Why?"

-"He would have committed atrocities if I had intervened," her mother argued.

-"But you're his friend, he wouldn't have hurt you."

-"I'm not his friend, only his emissary, his intermediary with the world of above," she specified before affectionately taking her daughter's hands. "I didn't do anything, because I feared for the life of the inhabitants of the Opera house, for mine and especially for yours. The Phantom has been generous to us in the past, but he's very versatile and quick-tempered. If his orders are not executed, he will not hesitate to turn against those he considered his allies before. I would never forgive myself if you suffer because of me."

Meg nodded, realizing the reasons that motivated her mother to remain silent. Among the many rumors hovering around the Phantom, those evoking his wrath and retaliation against those who disobeyed his orders and his hatred of the curious who ventured into his domain were the most recurring and substantiated. Anyone having one day dared to oppose the commandments of the Specter had to suffer a punishment more or less disastrous as a result of this disrespect. The danseuse understood only too well the fears of her mother.

-"Is Christine in danger?" Meg worried.

-"No, she fears absolutely nothing. The Phantom venerates her as a goddess," Antoinette reassured, holding insistently her daughter's fingers. "As for you, however, you must be very careful. Now that you're involved in the confidence, you should never disclose this secret or he may hurt you, what I will never bear. The Phantom has eyes and ears in every walls and ceilings of the palace, he will know immediately if you have betrayed him. Promise me to tell no one of what you know, even to the managers or the _Vicomte_!"

-"I promise you, Mom!"

-"Thank you, my little star."

At these words she kissed her daughter's forehead before hugging her firmly in her arms as if she feared that the Phantom would take her from her grasp. Meg was the most precious treasure Madame Giry had and she would die of grief if something bad happened to her because of her negligence and disobedience.

The young dancer suddenly straightened up and stared at her mother with a curious look, frowning as if an illumination had struck her.

-"How is it that you know the Phantom so well? Why did he choose you as a messenger? How did you meet him? Since when are you helping him?" she asked shrewdly.

-"Ah, it's a secret!" Madame Giry eluded waving an authoritarian index under her daughter's nose. "Maybe I'll tell you one day the whole story, _Marguerite_, but for now you know enough!"

-"But, mother!"

-"_Non_, no protest, no grumbling! I've already said too much!" she replied before encouraging Meg to stand up. "It's time to wake up everyone. Go prepare yourself for breakfast," she ordered, leading her toward the door. "I'll meet you at the dormitory in a few minutes."

Despite her unsatisfied curiosity and her disappointment to be ousted this way, the ballerina obeyed her mother's instructions and after having cast a last unhappy look over her shoulder, she walked down the narrow corridor to return to her lodgings.

With an amused smile, Antoinette entered in her room and went to the imposing dresser installed in her boudoir. She took from a drawer a wooden box that she placed on the desk in front of which she sat. With her fingertips, she traced thoughtfully the contours of the lid and finally opened it, revealing fragments of black porcelain. As she gathered the pieces of this strange puzzle, her thoughts turned to the past and the former owner of this particular accessory. These pieces of pottery constituted in reality a mask that had been broken more than twenty years ago, but she remembered this event as if it was yesterday. She would never forget this fateful episode, this first encounter with the Phantom… with Erik…


	7. Chapter 7 : Trust

_**A/N:**__ Here, another chapter! And I know, the rhythm is still a little quiet, but I can't help it! It's just that in my sight_,_ Erik and Christine's relationship is in the beginning a fragile and complicate thing, each of them staying on their guard. Christine, because she is standing face-to-face with an unknown man that she ignore his intents and Erik, because he knows that he has misbehaved towards Christine and he fears to frighten and offend her even more if he's not careful with his acts. I regard this awakening relation like a fragile rosebud that needs time, cares and spirit to grow and blossom in its entire splendor. But all this might change after a little naughty hand commit a huge mistake… stay tuned for new developments! __I remain as always, my dear readers, your obedient servant, Taedium Vitae…_

* * *

**~ Chapter 7 ~**  
**– Trust –**

* * *

Emerging from the capricious meanderings of a dream where she wandered endlessly, Christine awoke again in the luxury and comfort of a large and cozy bed. Her eyelids fluttered a few seconds, her gaze fixed on the flame of the candle burning on the nightstand. Still half asleep, she straightened up to sit on the mattress and quickly realized that she was no longer in the same room, although it was plunged into darkness. The mahogany four-poster bed with carved columns and decorated with refined marquetry, the opalescent tulle veils adorned with lace and the white bedding embroidered with a delicate pattern of red roses were clearly of feminine style. With a mechanical gesture, she combed her disheveled hair behind her shoulders and opening the thin curtains, she got up. Taking the candle, she explored the place briefly before discovering on the wall a gaslight she hastened to light. Soon, a pale glow bathed the room, revealing to her stunned eyes the mysteries and richness that the darkness had hidden.

She walked timidly in the middle of the room and froze when she discovered the luxury and tastefulness of the furnishings that had been chosen and prepared for her. Several thick Persian rugs with intricate and elegant patterns covered the ground and a pale blue _toile de Jouy_ decorated with exotic birds and flowers covered the walls. A lovely secretary desk garnished with a full writing set and topped by several drawers and small shelves stood against the left wall. On the other side, near the large bed was a small bookcase with a chaise longue, a coffee table and a reading lamp. Near the door was an old "Louis Philippe" chest of drawers covered with a marble top, on which were placed two white vases filled with red roses. A canvas screen painted with peacocks and trees behind which was a large and high closet occupied one corner of the room. While her eyes roamed on the unknown decor, Christine felt inexplicably at ease and comfortable, as if she had always lived in this place.

She walked around the room dreamily; her fingers touching with wonder the luxurious woodwork and delicate draperies until she reached the screen and the huge wardrobe, and opened one of the sliding walls. Her face paled suddenly when she discovered what was contained in the piece of furniture. A full and rich trousseau composed of dresses all different and of all colors, some fine silk and linen chemises, dozens of shoes, a few mantles and capes and several hats more distinguished from each other was carefully suspended on hangers. If she had even the slightest doubt about the origin of the gifts she had received after the performance, she had none anymore. The blatant proof that they came from this man, Erik, spread openly in front of her dazed eyes.

Still troubled by her discovery, she walked into the room and saw a second door she pushed with a curious and improper excitement. The wooden panel opened to reveal a sumptuous bathroom with pale purple tiled, fully equipped for all conveniences. Christine had never seen a so big marble bathtub, which was far from the jug and small ceramic bowl that she usually used for her cleansing. Approaching the sink, she splashed her face with water before drying herself with the thick and fluffy towel available. Her head throbbed and seethed like a boiling cauldron. She came back in the room and collapsed on the meridian before gently massaging her temples with her fingertips.

It was insane! After having her tricked, spellbound and abducted, this man now treated her with all the respect that was due to a princess what made her feel quite uncomfortable. She ignored whether she should be scared to death, mad with anger or simply grateful for his courtesy and generosity. The situation was so extraordinary and bizarre that she could hardly believe it. She was sure to be still asleep and everything was a bad dream that would disappear upon awakening. She didn't know what to think; so many questions, doubts and fears of which she dreaded the consequences swirled in her painful head and harried her tired and stunned mind. She passed her hand over her eyes wearily before exhaling a heavy sigh.

Amidst the chaos of tormented emotions that oppressed her heart, she suddenly heard the distant and faint melody of a violin whose sad and sweet notes instantly soothed her turmoil and the frenzy of her disordered thoughts. Captivated and attracted by the divine music, she got up like an automaton, as if her body didn't obey her reason, but to the poetic chords that whispered softly their call in her ear. She followed the traces of the chant that led her into the living room and then in the bedroom where she had awoken earlier in the night. In the middle of the room, she saw the violinist standing near a high lectern on which was spread several sheets covered with music notes and annotations. He was standing with his back to her and immersed in his composition, however, she had barely crossed the threshold that he stopped and lowered his bow at his side, his violin still resting on his shoulder. Surprised and embarrassed to have been spotted, Christine froze, still observing the imposing and intimidating man's shape.

-"Forgive me, Christine, I didn't want to wake you up," he apologized humbly. "A new oeuvre has crossed my mind and I was afraid of forgetting it if I didn't write without delay. The inspiration is often so unpredictable, ephemeral and perishable that it's essential to grasp it when it arose in our consciousness."

An awkward silence hovered in the room as they remained both motionless, evaluating and considering this new unusual situation that they faced.

-"I haven't dreamed the events of the night! Everything was real… You are real!"

-"I'm afraid so, my dear Christine. The truth is much more sordid and cruel than you have imagined, isn't it?" he emphasized with a sad glance over his shoulder. "Be sure that I'm the first to be sorry. I wish I could offer you better than this filthy cellar, but we must often resign ourselves to accept the infamy of our fate, especially in my case."

With a disappointed sneer, he lowered his violin and stared stoically at the wall in front of him, refusing to confront the accusing gaze of the girl.

-"Who are you?"

-"I thought you had guessed. I am your Angel of Music, but I am rather known for being the Phantom of the Opera."

-"This is not what I meant. Who are you really?"

-"Nobody…" he announced with a weary sigh, his head sagging against his chest. "An unfortunate damned soul who has heard your desperate prayers and who believed, in an unguarded moment, to be able to rescue an Angel fallen from heaven by giving her back her lost glory."

Listening to his soft and sincere words, Christine felt a sudden incredible and incomprehensible compassion for her captor, though she had every reason to hate and despise him. She should have a cold heart to not be moved by the sadness of this man who, despite his faults, his lies and his strange appearance, had dared to take her to his secret house.

Bothered by this sterile silence, Erik laid his fiddle and his bow on the music stand before turning around to finally face Christine's look. However, he didn't really discovered what he had imagined. Frozen near the threshold, her luminous eyes were carefully laid on him while she fiddled with her hands nervously, what she was always doing when she was uncomfortable.

Christine felt her cheeks reddened when he stood in front of her. His shirt and vest were widely ajar, revealing his upper torso and a dark downy hair on which she couldn't prevent her gaze to linger. He noticed easily where her attention was and he hastened to button up his clothes, clearing his throat in embarrassment.

-"Forgive me this unkempt clothing, unsuitable to host a girl, but I wasn't expecting to see you," he announced before adjusting the collar of his shirt.

-"Oh, sorry, I did not…" she stammered, looking away. "I'm sorry…"

-"Don't be!" he reassured, fastening his waistcoat.

If she was impolite, in this case, he was just as much, since he has also taken great delight in browsing and admiring the sublime contours of her womanly form still dressed in her filmy nightgown.

-"You're here in your home, Christine, and you have nothing to fear," he asserted, approaching a little. "Think of this place as a refuge far from the cruelty of men. You will never be insulted, blamed or mistreated within these walls, I promise you!"

She gazed him a moment in bewilderment. She could hardly believe that this gallant and courteous man was the same person who had deceived her for months and had finally abducted and locked her in his lair.

-"Thank you… _Monsieur_," she added hesitantly, not knowing how to name it.

-"I am hardly worthy of such a title," he quipped. "You can call me Erik, it will suffice."

-"All right… Thanks, Erik," she stammered, confused to sustain a certain casualness with her guardian.

While a confused silence settled once more between them, Christine's belly gave a loud and hoarse roar of which she was terribly embarrassed. At this touching and almost melodious sound, his eyes widened with surprise and amusement, before she looked away, blushing even more. With this fast movement, a long and thick lock of her hair slid on her delicate shoulder, touched her milky throat and unfolded on her graceful chest like a little serpentine. How he would have wanted to reach out, bury his fingers in her lush hair and comb this silky recalcitrant curl behind her lovely ear whose geometric finesse and perfection deserved a serenade! But he didn't move, and merely closed his fists vigorously until he feels his nails dig into the flesh of his palms.

-"I'm really an awful and negligent host!" he announced with a contrite air. "You must be hungry after the prodigious effort that you have achieved last night during the show! It's true that breakfast time is already passed for a few hours."

-"Really? What time is it?"

-"It's a little more than nine o'clock in the morning," he announced, putting on his black velvet robe.

-"So late!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening.

She was always an early riser, awakening often in the wee hours of dawn and lazy mornings were quite exceptional in her habits, but the events of the evening and the night had been quite exhausting and extraordinary that she deserved to bend the rules.

-"Yes, the passage of time is invisible and almost nonexistent in the depths of these catacombs. Sometimes it flees with the swiftness of lightning without we realize it, but more often it stagnates in a moribund slowness like the dead waters of a marsh, giving the oppressive feeling that the days and nights extend to infinity in the darkness, making us forget that outside the light is shining and life is blossoming. The sun doesn't caress with its fiery golden rays the unfathomable abysses of my tomb," he murmured wistfully, his sad and pensive eyes wandering aimlessly in the void.

Christine took a hesitant step towards him, anxious and troubled to see him falling as quickly and irresistibly into sullenness and despair. She wanted to touch his arm or squeeze his hand to comfort him, but she didn't know what his reaction would be, so she chose to repress her gesture.

After a quick wink, he regained his consciousness, his eyes dim and distant focusing on her, again full of determination, strength and pride.

-"Um, I'm sorry for these ravings, Christine," he apologized as he cleared his throat. "There is a clock in every room of the house, if you ever feel lost."

-"It's late. Should I not join the others for rehearsals?" she hazarded.

-"No, you don't need, nor today, nor tomorrow, nor for the next five days when you will stay with me," he said in a tone categorical and unquestionable.

-"But, won't they worry about my disappearance?"

-"Have no concern. I've taken care of all the little details inherent in your sojourn in my house. Forget these idiots and debauchees unworthy of your anxieties. You're out of their harmful reach in this place."

-"And… why those five days?" she dared ask.

-"Because after these five days are past, you would have learned to know me and would no longer fear me. And then, you will come, from time to time, to see your poor Erik."

He uttered these words with such a pathetic and cruel despair that Christine raised a tender look on his mask.

-"But we are not yet at the time of departure, quite the contrary. During this stay in my kingdom, your mind will be free from all worries, doubts and sorrows. You will be lulled with music, magic and dreams… worshiped like a Goddess… pampered like a Queen… I'll be your humble servant, and I will make a point to grant the slightest and most insignificant of your desires. And now, allow me to invite you at my table," he announced, spreading his hand eagerly towards the door.

Christine was mysteriously fascinated by his movements so graceful that he seemed to move to the rhythm of music he was the only one to hear. Charmed by the delicacy of this simple courteous gesture, she followed him like a puppet whose strings he pulled without even needing to touch her. He led her into the dining room, dominated by a huge dark oak table lit by two candlesticks and covered by a wide lace doily.

After having sat the girl comfortably on one of the high wooden chairs, he disappeared into the kitchen in the adjoining room. During his absence, she observed absently this place that would be part of her livings during the following days. Two sumptuous and imposing glazed wooden dressers were placed on each side of the room, overflowing with fine porcelain dinnerware, silverware and crystal glassware. A high and austere _Comtoise_ clock stood against the back wall between two buffets which contained the table linen. The solitary meals had to be dreary and depressing in this vast room dark and quiet. She imagined easily this man sitting face-to-face with nothingness, the occasional clock ringing and the dull clatter of cutlery on the plate being the rare sounds that disturbed the tranquility of his exile.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Erik reappeared in the doorway, carrying a large tray covered with food he placed diligently in front of Christine. Her eyes widened as much with amazement as with hunger, contemplating the feast he had prepared. There were small loafs of white bread, croissants, pastries, fresh butter, jam, honey, various fruits, and especially Christine's weakness, hot chocolate still steaming. Her stomach gave a new roar, excited at the sight of these tempting treats. She wasn't accustomed to so much abundance. Her breakfast was ordinary limited to a slice of brown bread, a piece of cheese and a bowl of tea which was served in the refectory of the Opera in company of the other residents. She didn't know whether to rejoice or feel guilty of being the object of such care and attention.

-"It's too much for me!"

-"Whatever I do, it will never be enough for me to pay the debt I owe you," he assured with conviction. "Every single hour that you have spent listening and singing to me is more worthy than all the treasures of the universe. You probably cannot imagine the priceless gift that you have given me in a manner so innocent, humble and blind. I hope that one day I would be able to thank you as you truly deserve."

-"That's very generous of you. Thank you very much," she stammered, looking down.

-"It is I who thank you for giving me such happiness!"

With gallantry, he poured a cup of cocoa while she leaned over the table to breathe the appetizing aromas which escaped from the tray.

-"_Voilà_," he announced, filling the porcelain bowl. "_Bon appétit_, my dear!"

Her belly complaining of hunger, she grabbed a loaf of bread she greedily bit, the golden crust crunching with delight on her teeth and the delicious smell invading her nostrils. Erik gave a faint smile at this charming show before heading to the opposite table end where he sat.

-"You do not eat?" she asked, her mouth still half full.

-"No, excuse me if I don't join you, but I have already lunched heartily," he confessed in a half-lie. "But don't worry about me, eat your fill!"

Despite her embarrassment of eating alone and, what is more, under the careful and inflexible eye of her guardian, she took another bite of bread and a sip of chocolate. It was exquisite.

-"Mmm… It is sublime!" she murmured with delight after passing the tip of her tongue over her lips, what the Phantom didn't fail to notice and appreciate.

-"No, you are sublime!" he admired, dreamily.

At these words, she lowered her eyes and her cheeks blushed delicately to the young man's delight.

Erik had never seen Christine eating or, rather, he had never witnessed this ritual so closely. He was viscerally fascinated, hypnotized, mesmerized by this enchanting spectacle and he literally stared at her ravenously. Every gesture of her hands, of her fingers, every movement of her mouth and lips were a divine dance she performed with seraphic grace as if she was unable to perform any gross blunder. He had never imagined that an activity so mundane may prove to be, in reality, a moment of pure bliss.

-"Hum… By the way, I haven't really had the opportunity to congratulate you properly for your prodigious triumph," he announced, trying to regain some semblance of control over his emotions. "You were simply divine! I believe all the words of all languages wouldn't be sufficient to describe the glory and beauty that you have given to humanity. I can say in all sincerity that this is the first time that the _Palais Garnier_ was honored to receive a so splendid Angel on its modest scene!" he complimented with fervor.

At this flattering praise, Christine's face reddened even more as she almost shriveled on her chair, confused at being the center of such acclaim. Since the death of her father, and then of the _Valérius_ parents, she hadn't been as pampered and appreciated than by this man, what made her feel oddly uncomfortable and intimidated. With a clumsy and hesitant hand, she tried to butter her bread, but she only succeeded in dropping her knife on the floor, staining the rich Persian carpet with a huge fat smudge. Cursing her clumsiness, she leapt up suddenly and knocked over her chair before bringing her hands to her mouth, horrified and ashamed at the sight of her negligence. She remembered, during a visit to the _Chagny's _mansion in _Perros-Guirec_, to have committed the same gaucherie on a sumptuous Oriental carpets and she was severely reprimanded and punished by the housekeeper. Since this unfortunate episode, she feared constantly spilling her food and causing any dirtiness. Her stomach tightening with fear, she waited for the reproaches and outcries of the Phantom.

Alarmed by her sudden and excessive reaction of fear, Erik got up quickly and hurried to her side. During a split second, he had feared to have committed a mistake and to have outraged her by his remarks, but he was quickly reassured when he understood the truth.

-"I'm sorry… I-it was an accident," she stammered, looking at him with frightened and almost tearful eyes.

-"It's nothing, Christine. Calm down," he reassured in a soft and soothing voice. "In fact, I would say that I'm the one at fault, because it seems that my words have surprised and shaken you."

-"Yes… uh, I mean, no! Well, that is to say, I'm not used to being adored and spoiled of such privileges by a complete stranger," she admitted bluntly.

-"I'm not a complete stranger," he specified sadly before leaning to pick up the overturned chair on the floor. "Haven't I talked and listened to you over the past six months? Haven't you considered me as a friend and a father who you could trust?"

-"Yes, it's true, forgive my rudeness. I'm a little nervous, wearied and bewildered," she defended before tightening her arms around her chest. "After all, there are only a few hours that I discovered that you were my Angel of Music, a being of flesh and blood and not just a spirit from heaven."

-"I understand, my dear," he assured after sitting her in the chair.

He went down on one knee before her, and tried to take her hand; however, he changed his mind and merely clasped his fingers on the armrest.

-"I am fully aware of the inner storm you must feel while your beliefs and hopes are suddenly wiped away by a cruel sweep of my hand. All these events must seem so strange, unreal, impossible and even disappointing to you," he confessed humbly. "This may sound foolish, but this situation is just as shocking to me. It took me a lot of courage and determination to dare appear before you and bring you in my lair, knowing my faults and my sins towards you, not to mention my hideous appearance. I'm not trying to justify my actions or obtain your forgiveness of which I am unworthy, but I just want you to know and understand the reasons that led me to act as I did."

In silence, Christine looked at him, perplexed, not knowing how to react to his revelations. Her sensible and reflective side wanted to blame him for his lies and deception; however her heart convinced her to show patience, tolerance and compassion towards this complex and lonely man. Despite his mistakes, he had offered her countless joys and immeasurable comfort when he sang and played for her in her moments of sadness. Her father had always said to not be deceived by appearances, for true beauty was found within the heart. The generosity and wisdom he had instilled in her during her childhood had always guided her and she had always tried to follow his example and to be worthy of it. Her Guardian deserved to have a second chance to redeem himself for his sins and prove his fair value.

With a shy and uncertain gesture, she placed her hand on the Ghost's one and wrapped it gently with her small fingers.

-"I think I understand," she confessed with kindness.

Erik's blood froze in his veins, his breath died in his lungs and his heart stopped beating instantly at this divine contact. His gaze lowered and he watched with amazement this carnal encounter. She touched him! Her gorgeous, warm, silky, delicate, perfect skin was brushing his imperfect one! He swallowed with difficulty when he sensed her tiny fingers tighten around his rough palm. Nobody, not even his mother had ever touched him with such tenderness and softness. His eyelids fluttered, and he raised his bemused look over her radiant and angelic face. His pulse began to throb violently and to rush with euphoria as he read the infinite kindness and inconceivable compassion sparkling in her bright eyes.

-"I trust you, my Angel…" he murmured, his voice wavering.

A strange feeling had awakened in Christine when her hand had touched Erik's one, as if an electric shock had traveled down her spine, exciting each of her nerve endings. Her cheeks heated, her breath had deepened and her heart had missed a beat before pounding slightly. Lost in the clear affectionate look of the young man, she felt stir and raised in her heart a feeling she had never known before, galvanizing and exhilarating her by the gentleness and the serenity it aroused in her soul, but she didn't know how to name it.

The austere and gloomy clock ringing stopped with a cruel indifference this precious and profound exchange. Intimidated, Christine slowly withdrew her hand and turned her face away, her ears blushing like two peonies. Erik would have wanted to scream of despair and throw himself into the girl's arms that he never wanted to leave, but as always, he restrained himself and regained control of his emotions.

-"Oh, I'm really a scatterbrain! I babble incessantly and prevent you from eating peacefully," he apologized before he picked up the dirty knife on the ground. "I'll fetch you another one."

Swiftly, he walked to the kitchen and reappeared almost immediately, brandishing a clean utensil and laid it next to Christine's plate. Then he sat back in his chair at the other end of the table as she shyly resume her hearty breakfast, throwing an occasional glance at the young man who was watching her with his imperturbable and hypnotic look. Terribly embarrassed and confused to be scrutinized so carefully during her meal, she thought in vain to find a topic that would somehow divert the Phantom's vigilance. However, after several minutes of awkward silence, Erik started a voluble and enthusiastic monologue in which he criticized and disparaged the poor performance of others actors, the false notes and dissonances of the orchestra and finally the technical slowness and incoordination of the machinists behind the stage. Christine listened with interest without a word, occasionally nodding to indicate her agreement or smiling timidly to one of his mocking and tongue-in-cheek comments. According to his speech, she seemed to have been the only perfect person on stage from beginning to end of the performance.

Savoring her last sip of hot chocolate, Christine placed her cup on the tray amidst some food scraps that she had left and wiped her mouth with her napkin. Her satiated and filled stomach let out a smug gasp that she stifled in her hand before putting her rag on the table.

-"I haven't eaten so well for ages. It was exquisite," she thanked, leaning back comfortably in her chair.

-"You're welcome," he announced, getting up and approaching her. "I am delighted that you have recovered your appetite."

-"My appetite? What do you mean?" she wondered, frowning.

-"Well, I do not want to be indiscreet, but in recent weeks, I could not help but notice that you ate very little and you had even lost weight. I was afraid that you're sick, but your hunger today proves to me that I was wrong," he explained, gathering the dirty cutlery.

Christine raised a stunned look on her Guardian and remained speechless. Nobody, not even Madame Giry and Meg had noticed that she had lost three pounds lately. Yet this man, who had never met her in the flesh, who was watching and spying her from the distant darkness, had discerned this tiny change without difficulty.

-"It is true that I was a little anxious and overworked during the previous days, often neglecting my appetite. However, everything should return to normal now that we…" she stopped suddenly, not knowing how to finish her sentence.

Erik looked at her almost with hope and interest, wondering if she thought about their unexpected reunion.

-"Now that I survived my first ordeal alone on stage," she replied, averting her face.

If he was disappointed by her answer, he didn't show it and merely took the tray he brought in the kitchen.

Christine's thoughts were chaotic and indecisive, changing opinion from one moment to another without she came to a decision. Her heart was relieved and even happy to finally be reunited with her Teacher, what she had hoped for so long, but her pragmatic mind kept reminding her that this man had spied, manipulated and deceived her during these many months until he finally abducted and imprisoned her in his secret lair. She felt as much welfare as discomfort of being with her Guardian, neither of these two antagonistic feelings prevailing over the other.

Erik reappeared again, stepping forward in fluid and proud pace, his tall figure draped in his black velvet robe that floated around his legs like the huge wings of a crow. The girl's heart skipped a beat at the sight of this dark and strangely bewitching vision, as if his mere presence was enough to charm and seduce his prey that he could capture submissively.

-"Perhaps you'd like to freshen up and put on an outfit more appropriate for the day," he pointed, unable to prevent his eyes from dropping on her sumptuous curves deliciously enhanced by her diaphanous nightgown.

She lowered her eyes and blanched, realizing she was exhibited to his view in these clothes as alluring and suggestive as indecent.

-"Yes, please," she mumbled, closing the robe on her plunging neckline.

-"Come, Christine, I'll lead you to your apartment," he proposed, waving her to follow him.

She obeyed him meekly and he headed her to her housing, opening the door with gallantry.

-"By the way, dare I ask you whether you like your room?" he announced and invited her to enter.

-"Oh, yes… it's gorgeous! I've never seen a so beautiful and luxurious one! Thank you, _Monsieur_… Erik," she rectified while he frowned to correct her.

-"Well, I'll leave you to your ablutions. If you need anything or you lack something, don't hesitate to let me know. I am your humble servant," he announced before tilting his head in deference and closing out the door.

**X X X X**

After a moment's hesitation, Christine entered the bathroom to run a hot bath. As she immersed and relaxed in the warm water scented with one of the many oils placed on a shelf, she heard through the wall the sweet melody of the piano rising in the next room. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the ecstasy of music, willing to momentarily forget the perilous situation in which she was and enjoy the incomparable virtuosity of her Professor. The chords were sometimes light and hopeful as the chirping of a bird and sometimes sad and weary as the complaint of the dark winter wind.

When the chant stopped and she opened her eyes again, almost an hour had passed unknowingly. The water had cooled down and she left the bath hastily for fear of getting sick. She wrapped herself in a large thick towel, took a dry cloth and dried her hair before applying a creamy jasmine-scented lotion on their whole length. Relaxed after this pleasant bath, she returned to the room and approached the huge closet where she pulled out a dress at random. It was a pale purple dress consisting of a skirt and a lovely camisole half-open on a blouse decorated with a delicate cream lace pattern. As she donned this rich outfit, a stream of sporadic and brief notes were heard, interspersed by long silence and indistinct murmurs.

Finally dressed, she looked for a mirror to make sure her toilette was acceptable, but she found nothing in the room or in the bathroom. The reason for this absence suddenly sprang to her eyes, cursing her stupidity for not having thought of it earlier. If this man hated his appearance, it was clear there would be no mirrors in his house.

After having briefly combed her hair without being able to ensure that she didn't look like a scarecrow, she left her lodging to join the living room where Erik sat at the piano, leaning on a manuscript that he was scribbling frantically. Standing on the threshold of her chamber, she let her eyes wander around the room curiously. She remembered perfectly the grand black piano, the many libraries collapsing under the books and the few dark wooden chairs upholstered with purple velvet decorated with lilies. In the opposite corner, she saw a door closed with a thick velvet curtain which probably led to a small vestibule and to the entrance. Beside the piano stood a magnificent black marble fireplace whose hearth was covered with crumpled papers half charred. It was probably the place where perished the unfinished, poor and unsatisfactory works of her Maestro. On the mantelpiece was laid the open case of the violin as well as a flute.

Careful not to disturb her professor in his work, she tiptoed through the room, but he suddenly turned around as she approached and his eyes widened with admiration on seeing her wearing one of the outfits from the wardrobe he had provided and fashioned specifically for her. She was resplendent and the purple matched perfectly with her milky complexion and brown hair, highlighting the glare of her big brown eyes.

-"My dear, you're amazing," he exclaimed as he stood up. "But please, come in and have a seat."

He indicated her politely a chair near the fireplace on which she took place.

-"Did you find everything you needed?" he asked, sitting on the sofa nearby.

-"Yes, it's so much more than I'm used to have, except… well, I mean... I didn't find a mirror," she stammered, her fingers nervously playing with the folds of her skirt.

-"Ah! This is a detail that escaped me! But I must admit that I'm not very familiar with these unpleasant accessories," he quipped in a sardonic tone. "I make it my duty to get you one as soon as possible, even if you didn't need it. You are splendid regardless of your looks or your clothing!"

She turned her face to the piano to hide her embarrassment and her rosy cheeks. This man never ceased to praise and compliments her as if he was incapable of uttering a deprecating word to her. His courteous and kind manner was such a contrast with the kidnapping and deceit he had accomplished that she didn't know what to think or believe about him.

-"What were you writing and playing?" she asked, clearing her throat, eager to change the conversation subject.

-"Oh! I was completing and finalizing my last composition. Nothing very interesting," he avoided with an evasive wavering of the hand.

-"No, don't say that!" she contested boldly and vehemently, what she would never have thought to be able. "Your… your musical creations are wonderful and prodigious, of an unparalleled beauty and perfection! You shouldn't speak with contempt or neglect of them!" she stated, holding his penetrating gaze. "I cannot explain it, but your music and your voice always gave me immense comfort and indescribable well-being as if my heart was in harmony with the notes and sounds that I heard… some kind of spiritual communion… a soaring of the soul…"

-"I know what you feel, because I live the same experience," he whispered in a frail and almost overwhelmed voice. "All my life I never thought to experience the emotions that seize me every time I hear you sing… as if finally your voice called me from the gloom, crying that you heard my fears, my torments and my tears… as if you shared my solitude, understand this feeling of nothingness that consumes me from within… I sometimes feel that our hearts beat in unison to the rhythm of a melody that we are the only to perceive," confessed the Ghost pensively, his melancholy eyes wandering in the distance.

Troubled by this sad speech which revealed a rejected, bruised and fragile man; Christine looked at him, perplexed and questioning, during the few seconds he was lost in his thoughts. Who was this man? What a horrible secret and terrible misfortune he hid in the depths of his soul, forcing him to hide in the depths of the earth? Why had he chosen her over another? Her captor seemed to be more than just an illuminated forced to hide in the bottom of the Opera. She felt he was rather a poor soul persecuted, bullied and excluded from the above world by human cruelty and stupidity because of his appearance.

She suddenly realized why she had found his eyes so familiar and fascinating during their first meeting. This weary and distressed look was none other than the same she saw every morning in the reflection of her mirror. This link he had created, strengthened and made grow between them was not a mere and grotesque subterfuge fomented in the sole purpose of luring her, but rather a singular reality that united them. This thought terrified and galvanized her at the same time. She had shared this perfect and privileged relationship only with her father and she would never have imagined that one day she would relive this absolute affinity with another person. Was it possible that such a miracle happen twice in a lifetime?

-"Would you like me to play this piece for you?" he suggested in a voice both hopeful and shy.

She nodded without hesitation, suddenly reassured by his manners and his affable words convincing her to trust him and to not be afraid. He stood up in a long movement imbued with the elegance and slenderness of a cat, and then he led the girl into his room where he brought her near the organ. After approaching a seat for Christine, he sat on the bench in front of his instrument and carefully arranged his score on the wide music rest.

-"Did you built it?" she asked curiously.

-"Yes and no," he explained as he pulled and pressed various levers on the consoles on either side of the keyboard. "It's an old organ that director Poligny had acquired for the Academy, but it was never used. I took it, assembled and improved it to place it in my house. This is an interesting instrument because it combined with some keyboards and pedals every tonalities of an orchestra."

With a familiar and automatic gesture, he brushed his fingers on the ivory keys and produced a flurry of notes that vibrated and tinkled in the room around them. Satisfied with his preparations, Erik took a deep breath, and after a brief pause, his hands laid on the keyboards he stroked gracefully and deftly. The most desolate and heartbreaking sounds that Christine had never heard echoed around her in an anthology of ethereal notes, as if the organ was alive and wept with grief. Dazed and enchanted by this tragic lament, her thoughts fled and her feelings intensified until they dominate every cell of her being. She drifted and swung to the rhythm of the music that flowed through her veins as a salving panacea, capturing her mind and obscuring the outside world. Behind her closed eyelids, a mournful image appeared clearly to her. A lonely and cursed shadow was dragging along the chains of his misery through the gloomy ruins of his abandoned castle, crying out the name of his lost love through the sepulchral walls, his tearful cries echoing in the empty and cold valley from where no response came.

-"Christine, do you feel all right?" called out a soft and deep voice.

She suddenly opened her eyes that she didn't remember having closed and again saw the room and her Professor who watched her anxiously. Where the haunted castle and its sinister master had vanished? Had this scene so clear and accurate been only a dream, an illusion caused by the bewitching charms of music? Yet everything had seemed so real and palpable to the point she could have touch this lonely specter.

-"Oh, forgive me, my Angel, I have never wanted to make you weep," he grieved.

Stroking her fingers on her face, she felt many tears wetting her cheeks, but she had no memory of having shed them. As if by magic, a handkerchief appeared in his hand and he handed it politely. Still troubled by her vision and the tumult of her emotions, she took the piece of cloth with a trembling hand and wiped her cheeks, intently watching this enigmatic man. He was perhaps not a Ghost, nor an Angel, but there was undoubtedly an element of mystery and supernatural about him. What was this power he had over her? How could he evoke in her thoughts those images so powerful and tangible that she forgot reality? What would happen to her if she was unable to protect her mind from his mental invasions which rendered her as docile and vulnerable as a lamb? Would he use this skill to deceive her vigilance and obtain her favors? He had assured her otherwise, but how could she be certain after considering the many months during which he had deliberately lied to her.

-"Excuse me, it's really stupid of me!" she stammered, confused and lost.

-"Don't be embarrassed by your emotions, Christine," he comforted in an affable and compassionate voice. "You don't have to be ashamed in front of me. In this place, there is no one to judge you, criticize you or humiliate you. You're free to be yourself and follow every impulse of your heart. If you want to cry, let your tears flow! If you're happy, laugh with all your joy! There are no rules, no limits, and no constraint in my kingdom where the Music, Magic and Art are the only to reign! Give in without any guilt to your darkest dreams and to the sweet intoxication of all the desires that you have buried and hidden in the depths of your being! Remember that you are at home here, my Angel. Don't be afraid to despise and defy decency and virtue in order to discover the priceless secret living in your soul," he exclaimed, his green eyes blazing with a passionate and sparkling flame while his speech heightened.

Christine's impetuous heart, which had formerly been forced to silence and obedience by the moral codes of the civilized world, began to throb with excitement and euphoria as she listened to his intoxicating and exciting words. She felt that her mind was trying to escape from its envelope of flesh and bone to reach this miraculous state he described with such conviction and fervor. After the interminable and intolerable years of negligence and nonexistence, her heart awoke again to life and light, eager to embrace and conquer the pleasures and temptations which had been forbidden to her. She had lived a so perfect and absolute freedom only with her father when they wandered through the vast lands of the colorful Europe. At that time, they had known no constraints, no boundaries, no rules imposed by civilization, traveling and living free like the wind wild and uncontrollable, making countless meaningful and valuable meetings. The sincerity of friendship, the candor of love and the beauty of the music were the only laws to rule their existence. As far as her memory went back, Christine didn't remember having felt more happy and serene than during these carefree years of Bohemian life.

And then suddenly, she met, hidden under the asphalt of Paris, a strange and unknown man whose speech was similar to what she had heard in her childhood. Doubts assailed her for a split second and she wondered if, ultimately, this Phantom was not really the Angel of Music that her father had promised to send her.

As he left his keyboard to approach her, a meowing arose from a corner of the room, instantly attracting their attention. Her eyes widened in disbelief when she saw the new strange visitor who had burst into the room in a so intimate and serious moment. Sitting on the purple bedspread a cream cat, spotted with black on the muzzle, paws, ears and tail looked at her curiously with its sparkling blue eyes. A wide shimmering diamond collar adorned its graceful neck.

-"Ah! Here you're at last, little minx!" Erik exclaimed, taking the elegant animal in his arms. "I was seriously beginning to worry! I hope at least that your hunt was successful!"

As if the feline understood the conversation, it let out a satisfied meow and wiggled its little head under the delicate caresses of its master. Erik crossed the few steps that separated him from Christine and knelt on the ground to make the necessary introductions.

-"Christine, here is my furred companion, Ayesha," he announced emphatically, which made her smile. "Ayesha, I present you our guest, Christine Daaé who will remain a few days with us."

Hesitantly, the girl reached out for the animal which curled up in her master arms with a frightened hiss, gazing constantly this unknown woman. Christine promptly withdrew her palm she hid in the folds of her skirt as she frowned and bit her lip with confusion.

-"Don't be afraid! No one will harm you", he assured, but she didn't know whether he was talking to the cat or her.

With slow loving movements, he flattered the thick fur of the cat that purred deeply and relaxed, her eyes fringed with long lashes blinking contentedly. Then he reached out to gently grasp Christine's wrist and guided her inert hand towards the animal's nose. The tiny cat lifted her head and sniffed with vigilance the offered fingers before licking them friendly with her little pink and rough tongue. The soprano released a musical laugh of joy that sounded like the tolling of a bell in the Phantom's ears.

-"There is much to be learned from beasts. They are often misunderstood and depreciated for their wild behavior, although they don't want to hurt anyone and they just need affection and kindness to be tamed," he specified in an enigmatic voice full of insinuations.

Gently sliding her hand on the black muzzle, Christine realized that he spoke as much of the fearful animal than of himself. In his own indirect and wary way, he asked her to exercise patience, compassion and friendship towards him so they can get to know, understand and appreciate each other, instead of relying on appearances and first impressions.

The rumor told that the Phantom was an evil and cruel being, ready to fulfill any mean exaction for his demands, yet the man who stood before her didn't seemed to be such a horrid demon. Undecided, Christine didn't know if she should believe the legends of the _Palais Garnier_ or the sad and pleading words of this lonely and shunned man? Looking up at his face, she stared at his melancholy eyes which seemed to gather all the misery and sadness of the world and she knew what she must do. She chose to trust and believe him as it had always been since the first day they met.


	8. Chapter 8 : Betrayal

_**A/N: **__Here, at last I'm able to post another chapter! I hope you will excuse this long and rude delay, but lately I'm fighting against the throes of depression that consumes and wrecks all my energy… and I'm far from being healed :-( Really a vicious disease… Anyway, all that matters, it's that I've been able to finish this new chapter of transition! Don't be shy or hesitant to leave a review; it will be the most appreciated! I take the opportunity to welcome the new readers that have joined this story. Thanks for your interest! I thank you for your patience and I remain as usual, dear friends, your obedient servant, Taedium Vitae…_

* * *

**~ Chapter 8 ~**  
**– Betrayal –**

* * *

Sitting on the cozy couch in the drawing-room, Christine affectionately stroked Ayesha's thick fur as she was curled on her lap, and listened with enthrallment and admiration to the most divine melody she had ever heard. Erik was standing near the fireplace, his gaze lost in the dancing flames while he was playing dreamily his harmonious lament on his transverse flute. Lulled by the quiet flights of his serenade, she settled comfortably in her padded seat and stared at the slender, attractive and masculine silhouette of her professor who swung with the slow rhythm of his creation as if he were one with it.

From her seat, she could only glimpse the right side of his face where was placed the mask that she studied briefly, wondering what it could hide, how he had inherited it and since when he wore it. According to some gossips of machinists, and especially of Joseph Buquet, the Phantom was a walking skeleton displaying a death's-head without nose, with yellow skin and black orbits where two golden flames glistened. This caricatured description did absolutely not look like the robust and virile man who stood before her. At first glance, his thinness and his pallor made him look lanky and sickly, but this appearance was heavily misleading. In his presence, it was impossible to ignore the strength, determination, power and pride that emanated from his person. No one could disregard his clear, shimmering and mesmerizing eyes that emphasized and reinforced disturbingly the dark and mysterious aura hovering around him.

However, behind this stoic sangfroid, she easily imagined that his mask was hiding some deformity or mutilation that made him ugly to the point of scaring anyone saw him and forced him to isolate himself beneath the earth away from the society of men. Perhaps his brain was exposed amidst putrid strips of flesh or a gaping hole revealed the viscous depths of his skull or he was covered with suppurating and bloody scars showing parts of his whitish bones. She couldn't deny that she wanted to know what defect his mask concealed that made him so bitter, desperate and distrustful of strangers. But at this serene moment, his appearance was insignificant, since only the music they were sharing mattered, reuniting them in a utopian world where they were the sole masters.

For several minutes he played with reckless abandon, the reality reducing to his sweet symphony, until he turned around and fixed his bewitching eyes on the girl lounging in her chair. The expression on his face was fiery, intense, feverish and almost painful as if his heart was suddenly assailed by tormented and passionate feelings he struggled to contain. The dance of his talented fingers on the flute accelerated and stirred while he admired Christine with such ardor that she had the feeling that her soul was laid bare. The brief image of his skillful hands running over her skin and not on the flute crossed the stormy thoughts of the girl whose heart quickened in an anarchic and untamable way. She felt capsize and was irresistibly snapped up and overwhelmed by his music as a drunken boat tossed by the waves in a storm.

The song became swirling and wild like a calm breeze suddenly metamorphosing into a light and swift wind playing in the trees and waving the calm meadows in a musical rustling. Exalted and intoxicated, she closed her eyes and imagined being a bird whose wings danced with graceful majesty and skill between the trade-winds and zephyrs, frolicking among the fleecy clouds, free from all earthly fears and constraints. Carried by the wings of her Angel of Music, she whirled in the sky among the twinkling stars and the ageless planets. Finally, the complaint softened until it stopped and Christine came down to Earth in her Guardian's protective and soothing arms.

Lowering his flute, Erik adoringly watched Christine's angelic face lost in her dreams, her cheeks tinted with a delicate pink, her lips slightly parted on her swift breath and her flickering eyes adorned with long black lashes. Her huge brown eyes, as bright as the most precious jewels, opened quietly and in their unfathomable depths, he saw a small spark of gratitude, affection and admiration of which he was the inspiration. Crazy with hope and love, he dropped his flute on the ground and fell on his knees at Christine's feet before grasping the bottom of her dress he kissed reverently as if paying tribute to an ancient goddess.

-"Christine… Christine…" he whispered between two distraught kisses. "_Oh, mon doux et bel Ange_…"

Her breath freezing in her throat, the girl's eyes widened in disbelief to see the Phantom so humbly prostrate at her feet and was alarmed to hear his voice quavering, tearful and almost broken. Apparently, Ayesha was also surprised by the unusual behavior of her master; as she stood on her hind legs and jumped on the back of the chair where she sat down to contemplate with a questioning eye this strange scene.

-"You cannot imagine the privilege you grant me by your mere presence," he revealed, pressing his face against the garment. "I never had the chance to play my compositions to a person who appreciates and perceives music as you do. I've always written and played for my own need in my solitude, without being able to share my work with another soul, without being able to know the emotions that my creations stir in the heart of men. Oh, yes, there was a time where I experienced the joy of the crowd, but they were only ignorant and curious folks who saw in me just a grotesque and abject monster that could be easily ridiculed," he spat with contempt and bitterness.

His eyes darkened and his fingers gripped with rage the fabric of her skirt at the memory of these grimacing and mocking faces clustered around his cage. During his youth in the fairs, he was forced to use his exceptional talent for singing, music and magic to entertain onlookers, plus the exhibition of the awful features of his abhorrent face. Whatever the ingenuity, the skill or the amount of hocus-pocus that he could create to satisfy his audience, the only show that interested these scoundrels was to humiliate and degrade him and to mock his cursed ugliness.

-"But you, my Angel," he whispered, raising his bright eyes on her. "You have been chosen and blessed by the rare gift to understand and feel the music, not with your mind but with your soul. I never thought that one day I would be able to meet someone like you! You're the Angel of Mercy who will guide me towards the light and save me from my solitude! You are my Muse, Christine! Since the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me to serve and sing my music."

Terribly embarrassed by his inept praise and by the immoderate deference he showed her constantly, she grabbed one of his arms vigorously and forced him to stand up.

-"Erik, please, get up, come and sit down… and stop this nonsense!" she affirmed despite her hesitant voice.

-"Nonsense?" he cried in disbelief, taking the place at her side.

-"_Oui_," she replied, lowering her eyes, her fingers gripping his forearm like a shipwrecked clinging desperately to a raft. "I am unfortunately not this woman you describe. I'm just a poor and naïve soprano who had the chance for a fleeting moment to attract the spotlight. However, my triumph, as great as it was, is ephemeral and will be quickly forgotten and erased from the memories like tears in the rain. It is but a shadow and a thought that you love… I cannot give you what you seek!" she lamented.

Gently, Erik covered the girl's hands with his own and at this contact, she rose up her face.

-"So it's what you think, yet you're heavily wrong. Over the years, I have seen many singers strut on the theater stage, but none of them possessed the innate gift that beats in you," he assured in his deep and caring voice. "Oh no, Christine, your name will never be forgotten! Your renown and glory are just beginning, _mon talentueux Rossignol_."

Engrossed and beguiled by the limpid look of her Guardian, she had no difficulty believing in his prophetic words. Was he a soothsayer in addition to his many other powers? Why did he believe in her so fervently when she saw herself as a dull and insignificant artist? Her father had been the only one to have faith in her talent without any hesitation. His enthusiasm, love and courage had been Christine's great strength, encouraging her to always give the best of herself and never give up to achieve her wishes. But at his tragic and untimely death, all her hopes had collapsed and she had found herself alone, powerless and helpless against a materialistic and cruel reality where dreams had no place.

-"I don't understand," she stammered, shaking her beautiful curly hair. "Nobody, except my father, ever dared to offer me his confidence and dedication as blindly as you. What is it in me that you love so much?"

-"Your innocence… your sincerity… your compassion… your humility… your kindness… your perseverance… your patience… your delicacy… without forgetting your grace and beauty. Should I continue?" he asked teasingly before she shakes her head in embarrassment. "You possess a thing that most people lose when they enter this opera," he explained as he took one of her palms and placed it on her chest. "Your heart, Christine! Cherish it and protect it from the wickedness and corruption running rampant within these walls."

-"Despite all your kind words and your countless efforts, I fear to disappoint you ultimately!" she reproved, bending her head despondently.

Gently, Erik took Christine's chin between his fingers and lifted her face so she could read the firmness and sincerity of his faith in his eyes.

-"You've never disappointed me, my Angel!" he stated with conviction. "I know that you miss your father sorely, that he was the center of your universe, your protector and that no one will ever replace him, but maybe, if you allow me, I could help you find the confidence in you that you have lost and rekindle the flame that once burned in your soul. Let me be your protector, your guide, your shelter and I promise you that together we will revive the Phoenix from the ashes!"

-"I wish I could believe you and see again the happy little girl I once was, but so much misery and despair have invaded me all these years. I fear I will never be the same as I was formerly!"

-"This is not what I've discovered over the last few months during which you have confided in me. _Certes_, there are still a lot of weakness, fear and sadness in you, but you possess a lot of courage, strength and passion which are just waiting to be developed, strengthened and released. You were depressed and forlorn when I found you, yet I have seen a glimmer of joy on your face, the shadow of a smile on your lips and even the spark of hope in your eyes."

-"It is true that my heart is lightened and soothed since we met, but that was before I… I know the truth about you… before I discovered that you were a real man of flesh and blood. Nothing is the same anymore!"

-"The scenery and costumes are different, but the text and the theme are still the same. I might have lied about my human nature, but each of my words and actions were sincere. Do you consider what we have accomplished, shared and created as nonexistent and forgotten? All the progress you have made and the triumph that you received; are they unimportant, insignificant and artificial? According to your words, nothing that we built together was real? Our friendship which links are so complex and deep would be destroyed by the simple fact that I am a man and not an angel? Yes, I created a lie, but because you believe it, you discovered the strength that lived in you!"

-"I don't know what to think!" she lamented hiding her face in her hands. "Everything's happening so suddenly! My thoughts are blurred and entangled in an incoherent and confused chaos! Your words are fair and courteous, but there are so many disastrous and cruel stories lurking around your character! What guarantee do I have that they are not the truth! After all, you've already lied to me and manipulated me! I wish I could trust you, but my reason warned me."

-"And what does your heart say?"

At these words, she raised her bloodshot and questioning eyes on the caring face of her Guardian who seemed to expect her answer with a flagrant hope.

-"I… I don't know," she sobbed.

-"In that case, may I make a suggestion?"

-"What do you mean?"

-"During your stay in my house, I'll show you my world, my music and the man I am. After these five days in my company during which you will have learned to know me and to not fear me, you'll be able to judge me for what I am and not for what I seem. Only then, you'll tell me what decision you have taken, that to deny me or accept me. Know that if your answer is negative, I would accept it without rancor and leave you in peace, and if it is positive, it won't be irrevocable and you can, at any time, break our agreement. Whatever your choice, you will keep control of your destiny," he explained pragmatically and thoughtfully.

She looked at him with a frown, wondering if he was concealing any perfidy under this veil of benevolence. But could she really deny these long months of complicity and trust that had passed between them? Could one of his lies hush up everything? He had given her everything she had ever wanted, he deserved she grates him a chance to prove his worth.

-"Your request is legitimate and honest. I accept it," she said with determination.

-"Your answer enchants me!" he exclaimed enthusiastically before clutching her hands. "Well, it seems I have a lot of work ahead of me if I want to convince you of the merits of my intentions," he explained, frowning with a meditative air. "But for now, it's time for lunch," he cried suddenly before getting up.

**X X X X**

After a few quick preparations, Erik served Christine a hearty meal that she tasted one more time under the watchful eye of her professor. Again, he ate nothing and she wondered if he had taken a vow of fasting when he had settled in these catacombs, which seemed quite appropriate for a Phantom. When she had eaten her fill and he had cleared the table, he invited her to move into the living room where she strolled casually, admiring the many paintings hanging on the walls. Erik approached the piano; his fingertips patted the lid with some nervousness and hesitation as he watched the slender and lovely silhouette of the girl wandering through the room.

-"Christine, my dear, I hope you won't be angry with me, but I'll have to leave for a few hours this afternoon," he told in a contrite voice.

-"Where are you going?" she wondered, turning to face him.

-"I have some important obligations that I have to settle at the Opera."

-"Can I come with you? I do not like to be alone!"

-"No, I'm afraid you cannot come with me," he refused despite the pleading look she revealed to him. "But you won't be alone. Ayesha will keep you company… and my books too!" he explained, pointing to the huge libraries with a wide sweep of his arm. "All these manuscripts are yours! Do not hesitate to consult, explore and read them. They will show you windows on worlds that you didn't even know existed and will bring you an unlimited source of knowledge, inspiration and dreams! They are, I must admit, my best friends.

She smiled with confusion at the idea that anyone could befriend with a book. Reading was far from her favorite activity. She was perhaps fond of stories and tales, but she preferred to listen to them than read them. However, she had to admit that the rare texts she had leafed through were limited to the Bible and several annals of opera during her classes at the Conservatoire. It was not really the best writing to capture her interest. To please him, she would try to make a new attempt that may prove more successful and fruitful.

-"You're not afraid, are you?" he asked in a concerned tone.

-"No… I think not."

-"_Bien_," he said before heading to his room.

He reappeared a few minutes later, dressed in his impeccable suit and in his ample black cloak. Christine's heart skipped a beat when he walked toward her with a proud tread, his noble and commanding poise imparting him the intimidating majesty of a black panther. He stopped a few inch from her and, her breath frozen, she tilted her head back to contemplate his luminous and irresistible green eyes plunged into hers. He had never been so close to her, to the point that she could feel his hot breath brushing against her forehead. Standing in front of his high and robust silhouette, she realized for the first time how imposing, dominant, powerful, dark and mesmerizing he was. Prisoner of his look, she felt vulnerable and fragile like a puny mouse at the mercy of the fangs of a sublime cat.

-"During my absence, don't hesitate to wander and discover all the secrets concealed in my house. You are at home here and everything I have is yours!" he affirmed once more.

His gloved hand came out of the folds of his cloak and reached towards Christine's face, but when his fingers were about to touch her cheek, he changed his mind and his hand merely brushed the hair that cascaded over her shoulder.

-"I won't be long!" he murmured pensively.

With these words he turned back, his cloak swirling around him with grace, and he disappeared into the vestibule, the door slamming behind him with an almost gloomy noise.

After several seconds of stupor, Christine released the breath she had retained and gradually recovered her senses as if she was delivered from the spell he had cast on her. Sitting on the piano bench, she put a hand to her throbbing heart and realized that this time she has not been charmed by his music, nor his voice, but by his impressive presence and by his eyes where was shimmering ocean of sadness. No man had ever produced in her such a deluge of emotions with just a glance, what terrified and excited her at the same time. But, after all, she was always inconsistent and indecisive when her thoughts focused on Erik.

Erik… it was strange to think of him as a man and not an angel. However, deep in her heart, she was glad he was not an unattainable being, but a man she could see and touch, even if he was different from ordinary mortals. She hoped that this unexpected and unusual meeting would strengthen the special bond of friendship and complicity that united them rather than destroy it.

She was suddenly pulled from her thoughts when Ayesha jumped on her lap, mewing and wagging her tail to claim other cuddles. Flattering the elegant animal's head, her eyes swept the room that seemed strangely sinister and threatening without the presence of Erik, the huge libraries turning into vertiginous towers menacing to collapse on her and the piano looking like a wild beast with sharp ivory fangs ready to devour her. She realized uneasily that this house didn't have any windows, which, in all logic, would have been useless, since the house was built underground. A shiver ran through her and she hugged the cat firmly against her chest to find comfort in the warmth and softness of her fur. She knew that her reaction was childish and stupid, comparable to that of an ignorant and timid girl, but despite her efforts, she could not repress it.

Instead of yielding to the horrific hallucinations of her imagination, she stood up and hurried to turn on the last gas burners, the many candlesticks and the rare oil lamps scattered around the room, which quickly brightened with a comforting golden light. Relieved, she let go of Ayesha who meandered between her feet and rubbed against her legs to signal her displeasure at being neglected. But Christine's attention was attracted by the impressive libraries erected throughout the room. She chose to follow the advice of her teacher and went in search of a book, however, this task proved more difficult than she had assumed it _a priori_. They were so numerous that she didn't know which one to choose.

All genres seemed to be represented, going from technical, medical, or botanical books including poetry and novels. Every language was also present. Strolling along the endless shelves, she discovered works in Italian, German, and English and even in Greek and Latin. Many alphabets looked totally unknown to her; however she recognized some as Arabic and Russian. Did Erik really read all those books and in all these languages? His skill and knowledge seemed so vast and unlimited that Christine suddenly felt ridiculous and silly. Why a man endowed with such omniscience and erudition would bother with a humble soprano? Despite his compliments and encouragement, she still has difficulties to understand his motives and intentions.

With a disillusioned sigh, she closed her eyes and took a random book on one of the shelves reserved for French literature. The volume she withdrew was made up with black leather and whose cover was adorned with a title stamped in gold elegant letters announcing "_Les Fleurs du Mal_" by Charles Baudelaire. After a shrug, she sat on the couch, settled Ayesha comfortably on a cushion at her side and began her reading.

It was a collection of poems and, at first, she was not really excited about reading verses and quatrains, however she soon began devouring line after line, turning page after page with impatience. The themes were unspeakably sad and sinister, yet there was such beauty, passion and emotion emanating from this poetry that suffering was magnified. The writing was troubled, distressed, hopeless, sublime and moving as if the writer had experienced at the same time the ineffable joys and abysmal pains of love. Some ribald, licentious, lascivious and almost erotic allusions contained in several pamphlets made her blush to the images and ideas they depicted in a so ambiguous and voluble way. Closing her eyelids, she repeated the last verse she had read and imagined to hear it from Erik's mouth, listening to the words rolling and vibrating on his tongue, getting lost in the sweet and voluptuous whispers of his deep voice.

_"__She had lain down; and let herself be loved  
__From the top of the couch she smiled contentedly  
__Upon my love, deep and gentle as the sea,  
__Which rose toward her as toward a cliff."_

She dreamed of his sensual lips brushing her ear to whisper his mesmerizing litany, his breath hot and spicy sliding on her neck, her throat and invading her nostrils. His mouth lightly fluttered on her face, his languid fingers sketched the outline of her jaw and tilting her head back, his lips closed over hers to steal a passionate kiss to which she surrendered without any resistance. His soft and hot hand wrapped her alabaster throat and his thumb grazed the hollow of her neck where her pulse was throbbing fiercely. At this divine contact, a wave of flames exploded in Christine's chest and spread in corrosive trail through every fiber of her body. She felt more alive than ever.

The illusion was so precise and tangible that she was surprised not to see Erik in front of her when she opened her eyes. She was still alone, her head resting against the chair back, her lips parted on her shaky breath and her senses in turmoil. With a surprised gasp, she blinked several times and examined the living-room, sure to discover Erik's presence in a corner, but she saw no one.

Her cheeks burning and her heart throbbing, she straightened in her seat before wringing her hands nervously in the folds of her dress, embarrassed by her wanton and licentious behavior. Christine had always been a placid, prudish, naïve and rather innocent woman, so she had never thought that her mind could imagine such fantasies that would arouse her body in such a strong way. She had always thought she was immune to the temptations of the flesh; however a single day with her teacher had been enough to awaken this sensual part asleep in her. No man had ever done so. She was confused and embarrassed to feel such desire for this unknown man, her teacher, her Angel of Music; yet, she was no less lured and intoxicated by these dark mysteries that were revealed to her senses.

Tossing aside the book which had kindled these indecent ideas, she stood up hurriedly under Ayesha puzzled look and thought about another activity that would divert her from this misconduct. The clock showed 4:40 p.m. and Erik was still not back. He had promised to return as soon as possible and yet there was more than three hours he was gone. Not daring to plunge into reading again, she chose to visit the house as he had suggested.

Driven by curiosity, she went to Erik's bedroom, and after a brief hesitation, she pushed the door. The place was plunged into darkness and she hurried to catch an oil lamp on nearby _guéridon_ before entering the room. Without the presence of the householder, the atmosphere was gloomy and cold as if she stood in a funeral parlor. Suppressing a shudder, she walked around the chamber, stopping in front of an umpteenth library overflowing with book about music, opera and the great composers of the past centuries. On her way, she lit the few candles she found and stood before the large desk as always cluttered with paper; even the ground around the furniture was covered with parchments and wrinkled pages. Envelopes lined in black, a stick of sealing wax and a strange stamp lay on the desk in the middle of scribbled paper and charcoal drawings and watercolors. She examined the hallmark closer and, frowning, she recognized the shape of a skull, which was quite proper for a ghost. Continuing her little excursion, she found a locked door she supposed to be the bathroom where he was keeping his additional masks and the special lotions that he used to fix it. It seemed he didn't want her to rummage in his very personal objects.

She passed near the tidy bed and saw the great organ that filled an entire section of the wall. As she approached, she noticed a notebook open on the desk, covered with music notes and words scrawled in red ink. After having lit the tall candelabra around the instrument and set down her lamp on a small table, she took the book and read the title on the cover. On the black leather was written in large calligraphic letter "_Don Juan Triumphant"_ and just below, in small Gothic characters, _O.G._, probably for Opera Ghost_. _Was this an opera written by the hand of her teacher?

Captivated and intrigued by this discovery, she sat on the organ stool and leafed through the countless pages of the unfinished manuscript, lingering sometimes to decipher the melody of an aria or to read the libretto. A summary was scribbled on the first page that she read quickly. It was the story of _Don Juan_, a rich man, selfish, petty and hypocritical, whose sole purpose was to wallow in lust and exuberance. He enjoyed seduce and dishonor girls whether they were rich or poor, only their incredible beauty mattered, leading them to their disgrace. His immense wealth gave him full powers and rights to do whatever he wanted. His reputation as a callous and relentless man earned him the fear of his peasants and the respect of the other lords. But one day, a beautiful flower seller came to town and immediately attracted the lust of _Don Juan_. The innocent girl, _Aminta_, was quickly warned of the filthy and awful acts of this man by his former victims who had guessed his vile thoughts. Hindered in his plans by these warnings and fearing to be unmasked before reaching his goal, he sent his valet, _Passarino_, to lure and seduce the girl. During several nights, the servant, hiding behind a mask to remain unknown, joined the girl near the gypsy camp where she lived to court and wheedle her with sugary and mesmerizing words. At each secret meeting, _Don Juan_ staid concealed behind a wall and listened to the serenade intoned by his servant and that ultimately conquered the heart of his prey. However, it happened something that the womanizer didn't expect. While he was listening to _Aminta's_ song of joy, hope and love, he was charmed and dazzled by her grace and innocence, and against all expectations, he unfortunately fell in love with her. Confused and shaken, the relentless seducer didn't know what alternative he should follow. If he yielded to his feelings, he would lose his reputation and his credulity with all the other lords and peasants, which would be his ruin. But if he continued with his plan, he would destroy forever the only woman he has ever loved.

At this point of the story, the text became more uncertain and incomplete as if the author couldn't decide what conclusion he would give to his work. Erik had written two endings, and apparently, he hesitated between offering a chance of redemption to _Don Juan_ by winning _Aminta_'s love, and drowning him in sin as he had always done by betraying his beloved. Christine had the strange feeling that he was waiting for the decision she would take about their relationship to know the direction he wanted to give to his opera.

Chasing the thought of her mind, she continued to read and crooned one of the laments located at the end of the story where the dying heroine begged _Don Juan_ to hear her last prayer. The melody radiated with so much passion, hope, sadness and pain that she was instantly transported into another world, and she became _Aminta_, deploring the deception she had suffered.

_I came to you in my darkest hour  
__We used to know each other well  
__My last journey led to you  
__You're the only one I trust_

_In your hands I lay my tortured soul  
__In your hands I lay my voice  
__Please, hear my final request:  
__Save the last song!_

_In my eyes you'll read the saddest story  
__I lost all aims in life  
__And paid my price with loneliness  
__I'm tired of fighting my desires_

_In your hands I lay my tortured soul  
__In your hands I lay my voice  
__Please, hear my final request:  
__Save the last song!_

_I forgot all songs I used to sing  
__I only remember the pain they caused  
__Each note seemed to tear my mind apart  
__Take the agony away_

_In your hands I lay my tortured soul  
__In your hands I lay my voice  
__Please, hear my final request:  
__Save the last song!_

_For too long you weren't beside me  
__For too long you couldn't lead me  
__I'm losing my stability  
__And sometimes I'm losing my mind  
__I reach out my hands in the dark  
__But no-one seems to see me  
__I scream into the dead of night_

Several times, she hummed the tortuous melody that sounded like a requiem and she was so absorbed by the twisting words she didn't hear the door open.

-"What are you doing in my room?" screeched the offended voice of the Phantom.

She jumped in alarm to her feet and stifled a startled cry when she saw Erik standing in the doorway, his blazing eyes fixed on the libretto she still held.

-"I repeat. What are you doing in my room?" he growled, walking into the room almost threateningly.

-"I… I… I did nothing wrong. I visited the home just as you've suggested me," she stammered fearfully as a mouse prisoner of a cat's claws.

Her paralyzed hands dropped the book whose pages scattered on the ground under Erik's angry eyes. With an annoyed grunt, he threw himself on his knees to pick up his precious sheets. Christine took several frightened steps back when she saw his fuming and venomous look her Guardian, but her flight was quickly stopped by the bedside table behind her.

-"Were there no other places to quench your curiosity? I don't have the right to have a personal space and a little privacy?" he spat viciously. "After all, you're a woman and curiosity is second nature to you. I was naïve to believe that you wouldn't stick your nose in my belongings during my absence. I give my trust to people who hardly deserve it," he cursed, closing the leather book.

-"I didn't mean any harm," she lamented bitterly, confused by his statement in complete contradiction with his preceding words. "You said that I was here at home and I assumed… I'm sorry! I was wrong to believe that I could do whatever I want," she sobbed holding back her tears.

But what was happening to him? Why was he suddenly so odious for no reason? Horrified to have harassed and tormented Christine to tears, Erik jumped up and helped the girl to sit on the bed. Thin silent tears glistened on her cheeks and in her bloodshot eyes, her chest heaved unenvenly with each weepy gasp she tried to suppress. He deserved to be punished for his unwarranted cruelty, a whipping for every tear she shed!

-"Forgive me, Christine! Forgive me…"

-"It's nothing. Your reaction was justified," she stammered. "It's just that your criticisms are always painful to me. I want so much to please you, that I inevitably feel sad and guilty when I disappoint my Angel of… when I disappoint you," she corrected, lowering her head.

-"Oh, Christine! No, you did absolutely nothing wrong!" he comforted, grasping her palm between his gloved fingers. "I'm the one at fault. I can blame only myself and my stupidity! It is absolutely inconsistent to allow you to do something at one given time and to forbid it the next second. But as you can imagine, I'm not used to see someone pry in my stuffs and I was annoyed and offended to see my manuscript in your hands while nobody has ever touched or even read it. I didn't realize what I was doing and I was carried away by anger. I'm sorry, my little fairy…"

Quenching her tears, Christine wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and sniffed loudly before Erik give her a handkerchief he pulled out of his jacket.

-"It seems that I am a master in the art of making you cry, even if it has never been my intention. I should have taken a few courses of civility and courtesy before bringing you in my house. It could have spared us some mishaps," he confessed with a sheepish grimace.

She smiled shyly to his attempt of joke, which seemed to delight her professor whose contrite features relaxed. He got up to place the notebook on the organ's desk while Christine left the bed to approach him.

-"I should have kept this booklet out of your reach. It is obvious that anyone would have been tempted to read it," he pointed out after removing his gloves and his heavy black cloak that he threw across the bed.

-"This is a very interesting work. I would love to hear you play one of these songs!" she proposed, thinking to please him.

-"_Non_, Christine, you must never ask me that!" he cried, turning abruptly to face her. "I would play whatever you want, but not this opera. This _Don Juan_ is not done for chaste and innocent ears like yours. My music is somehow corrupting and dangerous, because it burns and consumes all those who approach it. You are too young and naïve to experience and survive the dark decadence of these creations, without being sullied by their darkness," he stated in a gloomy voice.

Frowning, she looked at him dubiously and puzzlingly. It was difficult to imagine that music could be dangerous, but, after all, had she not been charmed and bewitched every time he was playing or singing, and yet it was also just music. In this magical and surreal realm, anything was possible.

-"You should return to your room to freshen up and get ready for dinner. I'll come get you when dinner is served," he concludes before she has time to insist.

**X X X X**

After dinner, Christine joined her room to dress for the night when she heard a sumptuous and delicate melody rise once again in this sad house that seemed to brighten and lighten up progressively as the seraphic notes spread their charm in the austere silence. She immediately recognized the pitch of the piano, like the rustling of a fine crystalline rain, but she had never heard this instrument being played with such virtuosity and grace.

Wishing to attend and enjoy this moving recital, she hurried to finish her toilet, oblivious that her appearance can be neglected, and hurried back to the drawing-room. Standing on the threshold of her room, she observed in more detail her Maestro sitting on the piano bench, his back turned toward her. He had abandoned his jacket and wore only his waistcoat and white shirt which he had rolled up the sleeves slightly, revealing his pale and slender forearms. Under the linen shirt, his shoulders were broad, but very angular and emaciated. His shiny black hair like a raven's feathers was carefully slicked back on his thick nape.

While she scrutinized his masculine silhouette, a curious and almost euphoric feeling she didn't understand warmed and galvanized her senses. A dark part of her mind wanted to approach him, hold his sensual hands, caress his arms and neck, slip her fingers in his luxuriant hair, breathe his musky scent and feel the strength of his virile body against hers. She was inexplicably lured and fascinated by the threatening, dark, intense, passionate, not to say erotic aura that was always hovering around him. She was both frightened and excited by these unknown and exhilarating sensations, with this strange impression that she defied taboos and dangers when she was in his presence. Her chaste heart should be offended by the ardor of such primary and bestial emotions, yet she felt almost drunk and excited by this mysterious and intoxicating passion that awoke in her.

His irresistible and sensual music wrapped and transported them to a world out of time and reality where only their physical instincts guided and dominated them. Soon, the piano chords were joined by the invisible lament of a violin, a flute, a guitar and a myriad of other unknown instruments whose name she could only guess. Lost in the labyrinth of emotions he stirred in her, Christine approached in silence while her Guardian was relentlessly oscillating on the tormented waves of his sublime serenade.

Erik felt her presence at his side, but he was neither scared nor upset or embarrassed as it usually happened when someone was near him. His surroundings seemed to dissolve and fade away while his mind left reality and wandered in the fantastic mists of his bewitching melody. Lost in the rapture of his dream, he allowed her to get closer than it had ever been, to the point he felt her feminine curves pressing against his side. Her delicate hands rested on him, one gripping his shoulder and the other touching his neck where she felt the slow beat of his pulse. The unexpected and unique sensation of her slender fingers on his untouched skin stole the thoughts and fears from the Phantom who sank body and soul into the depths of this exceptional meeting. He turned his head slightly to give better access to her timid exploration he wanted to savor every second. Her palm glided on the intact, unmasked part of his face, outlining the edge of his regular jaw to cover his normal cheek, her small thumb stroking the delicate ridge of his cheekbone. Nothing else mattered except the warm and loving touch of her hand on his flesh which had never known any affectionate contact.

Unaware of the danger to which he exposed himself and blinded by the delight of her caresses, he didn't notice that her other hand had ventured on his mask of which she traced the edge with curiosity. With a swift and audacious gesture, she took off the piece of leather and revealed his deformed face to her surprised and horrified eyes.

* * *

_**Note:**__The verse recited by Christine is from a volume of French poetry "The Flowers of Evil" written by Charles Baudelaire and edited in 1857 for the first time. The excerpt in question comes from the poem "The Jewels" which had been censured in the 1861's republishing, because it was considered as an insult to public and religious decency. It's seems fitting that Erik, who is a little libertine rogue, possesses this book and uncensored preferably._

_The song present in Erik's opera is called "The Last Song" and is from the album "Mera Sangeet Kho Gaya" by the German band "Persephone"._


	9. Chapter 9 : Revenge

_**A/N: **__Welcome to all of you! Here another chapter, I hope, you would like. Some dialogues and themes are unashamedly taken and inspired by Leroux's and Susan Kay's books, but I must admit that the writing of Erik's unmasking pleased me so much in Leroux's version that I' have scruples to transform it. Another little warning, the second part of the chapter (Christine's point of view) is a little steamy and licentious and deserved the –M– rating. So, if you're embarrassed or underage to read this kind of thing, you've been warned… Voilà, good reading and I remain as always, dear readers, your obedient servant, Taedium Vitae…_

* * *

**~ Chapter 9 ~**  
**– Revenge –**

* * *

What a stupid and brainless fool he was! How could he have let himself be fooled like that! He had been duped like a novice! By what sorcery the imperious and omnipotent Phantom of the Opera could have been manipulated and ridiculed by a frail girl! He should have been much more vigilant, cautious and wary, instead of being misled by the pernicious charm of this insolent woman. But the damage was done and it was too late to prevent it.

Wide-eyed and breathless, Christine had just time to see a hideous shapeless mass of distorted, mutilated flesh and of intermingled tendon before Erik knocked her down violently on the floor with a cry of rage as she had ever heard. She fell hard on her side without understanding what was happening, or what she had done, dropping the mask in her tumble. Beside her, the Phantom had gotten up, overturning the piano bench, and a hand splayed over his deformity, he walked on her ruthlessly, an inexhaustible torrent of insults and curses flowing from his snarling mouth.

-"Curse you, loathsome demon… infernal Gorgon… perfidious traitor!" he yelled with unspeakable savagery like an insane and enraged animal. "May you burn and perish in the furnaces of hell for this heinous crime! Damn you, awful harpy!"

Frightened by the hate and rage he poured on her, Christine sat up straight and tried to escape, but in two steps, he swooped down on her, and grabbing her wrists, he forced her to kneel.

-"Why are you trying to flee? Did I scare you? Don't you want to watch anymore? You wanted to see! _Alors_, _vois_!" he spat, gripping her hair to lift her head on him. "Feast your eyes; glut your soul on my cursed ugliness! Look at the face of Erik… of your Angel of Music!"

Weeping and wailing, Christine tried to break free of his implacable force, but he tightened his grip on her hair and viciously fastened his other hand around her thin neck to prevent her from turning away. Prisoner of his deadly hold, she had no choice but to watch the morbid spectacle that unfold before her. She had wondered more than once what his mask was covering, and now she knew the truth.

His deformity ravaged half of his face, from the bottom of his jaw to his forehead. Through the veil of tears, at first she thought she distinguished the deathly skinniness of a skull. His hollow cheek stretched on his protruding bones, revealing the prominent inextricable twists of his muscles and tendons as if he had been skinned. She almost had the impression to discern the shapes of his teeth through the thin and veiny flesh. Because of the constant frictions caused by his mask, his skin was damaged, red, sore, raw, translucent, and pockmarked and many cracks and scabs, more or less bloody and oozing, were gashing his face. His almost nonexistent nostril splayed and flattened to mingle with the lumpy flesh of his cheekbone made of a grotesque misshapen hump. His eye, whose lower eyelid drooped slightly, was underlined by a bulge of puffy skin and topped with an irregular arcade where his sparse eyebrow was reduced to a few dark hairs. His furrowed forehead and his bulbous temple extended up to the edge of his shiny black hair where the rest of his deformity seemed to disappear. His lips and ear were strangely spared by his malformation. She looked with her waking and shocked eyes the glorious beauty of an angel alongside the monstrous ugliness of a demon as if his visage had been cut with a scalpel and the face of a gargoyle had been sewn on his head.

-"Your curiosity is satisfied, my little lying Delilah! Is this what you had imagined while you were listening to the voice of your Angel of Music? Are you disappointed to discover that your Guardian is nothing but a filthy demon rotting in hell, a repulsive carcass that dreamed of Beauty?" he screamed, blinded by hatred, his fingers tightening fiercely on the throat of his captive.

When Christine's hands gripped his wrist to make him let go, Erik emerged from the dark bottomless pit in which he had sunk and discovered with horror her bloodless and suffocated face. Dear God! He was strangling her! Horrified by his actions, he freed Christine who fell on her haunch as he staggered back as a drunken man, his wobbly legs supported him no more and he dropped on his knees, his head and back sagging and his dangling arms slouching on the ground at his sides. He was defeated, annihilated, destroyed by the hand of the woman he loved and cherished above all.

-"Why, Christine? Why did you want to see? Why did you betray me?" he wailed, his broken voice a long painful complaint. "I had hoped you would be different… that you would overcome your fear, your repulsion and your doubts… that you would learn to understand and love beyond appearances… that you would surpass the putrid shroud of my appearance to find the man behind the monster! But now it's too late… too late…"

At these words, the girl sat up and with sadness and compassion looked at the prostrate figure beside her. Her eyes blurred by tears fell on the mask lying on the floor, wondering how it got there. Despite the treachery and danger of her actions, she had been unable to resist the temptation as if an intangible and mystical force had possessed and commanded her body and her mind.

-"See how I cry… I cry for you, Christine, who has torn off my mask, and, who therefore can never leave me again! As long as you thought me beautiful, you could have come back! I know you would have come back… but, now that you know my hideousness, you would run away for good! I keep you here, in my grave, forever a prisoner of the Beast who worships you and to whom you belong! You will never be free! You condemned yourself! Mad… insane Christine, how dare you watch this ignoble face… when it got me only contempt, disgust and fear of my mother who, in tears, made me present my first mask, so as not to see me! Why do you want to see the horror of the creature that all mankind hates, disdains and curses?

An oppressive, sepulchral and almost incongruous silence suddenly reigned in the room, broken only by Christine's sobs and by Erik's panting breath. They stared each other, motionless and silent, their eyes brimming with tears, perplexed, saddened, shocked and petrified by the incomprehensible and strange situation they endured. In a few tiny seconds, an extraordinary and divine dream had turned into a hellish nightmare, an uncontrollable savagery, a fatal tragedy…

Clinging to the remaining bits of clarity and solemnity he had, the Phantom hid his deformity with his hand and got up laboriously on his flabby legs. Weighed down by the burden of sorrow and humiliation, he swayed and staggered across the room to disappear into his room and slammed the door before locking it, leaving the girl to her sad fate. Safe in his lodging, Erik would have wanted to unleash his fury and despair, but his reason reminded him that Christine was present in the room next door, and for anything in the world, he want her to be the unfortunate witness of his pitiful degradation. Despite his despondency and despair, he found the strength to step into the secret passage hidden in the alcove where the dummy stood.

For long minutes, he walked the narrow and dark wet tunnel, sinking more and more under the ground like a wounded animal who sought refuge in the depths of its lair to heal his wounds and succumbed to their bite. Finally, he reached his destination, a tiny anteroom carved into the rock thousands of years ago by an underground river of which still remained a trickle of water that poured from the wall and flowed into a natural basin of stone. This cave was the first place where he found shelter from the outside world when he began to devote himself to the construction of the _Palais Garnier_, long before he built and lived in the House on the Lake. He had discovered it accidentally by rummaging through the catacombs while he was preparing the foundations of his den. Having nowhere else to go, he had installed a rudimentary housing in this insalubrious cavern during the completion of his house. Besides, there was still his small cot and a large chest filled with linen and clothes in a corner of the room.

Alone in the iced depths of the earth, silence and darkness wrapped him in their protective and familiar veil, whispering in his ear words of comfort, of compassion and spitting curses at the insects crawling on the surface of the world. Hidden far from the hostile and prying eyes of humanity, he felt swell and rumble a maelström of pain, hatred and anger in the pit of his stomach, threatening to engulf him under its merciless violence. His already rapid breathing became suffocated and spasmodic, his throat tightened and he tried in vain to take gulps of air, but his lungs refused to obey him as if they were suddenly paralyzed. Then, it was the turn of his heart to throb and thump in his chest with the fury of thunder, as though it wanted to burst from the boned prison where it was oppressed. His body was pierced by powerful, erratic and uncontrollable tremors, a cold sweat oozed on his forehead and down his shuddering spine, hot tears stung his eyes, his ears buzzed deafeningly and he began to feel dizzy. Choking and tottering, his limbs went numb before getting tetanized and he fell to his knees near the thin spring. With a superhuman effort, he took a pitiable breath and released the raging, cornered and dying beast struggling in the depths of his soul.

-"WHY…" he shouted with the ferocity of a lion.

Out of breath and of strength, his chest crippled with pain, he collapsed on the icy ground, his head hitting the ground violently, he curled up on himself without stopping to shiver and wept bitterly, as it had not happened for a long time… since the distant boy locked in his cage and exhibited to the cruel and mocking eyes of the crowd.

He had thought she would be different! He had given her his trust and his music! She was his muse, his light, his redemption, his soul mate! He had seen it in her eyes, heard it in her voice and sensed it in his heart! They were meant for each other. He had never felt an attraction and desire as violent and alienating than for this girl.

Yet, she had destroyed everything! There was nothing left! He wanted to die, to succumb to the pain rather than continue to live with this dagger embedded in his soul. His only hope to experience paradise and happiness had been destroyed by the hand of the one who could have saved him from his solitude. Once again, God had reminded him that there was no compassion and mercy for monsters like him and that he was condemned to wander alone in hells for eternity.

He had been stupid and naïve to think that she was the angel he had dreamed about and which would grant him kindness and mercy, which would absolve him of his sins and show him love. She was nothing more than a woman like all the others, a treacherous viper ready to leap, to bite and to spit her venom. After the grief and despair, it was the turn of anger and hatred to assault his thoughts; devouring his heart and soul with their acidic and putrid miasmas to chase away the last remorse and hope he might still feel.

He didn't know if he really meant to strangle her while she was at his mercy. If he had not been able to break away from the madness in which he had sunk, Christine would probably have died under his hands, and instead of suffering alone in the darkness, he would be crying on her lifeless body lying on the floor of his home. He shuddered at the thought. He could only feel lucky to have found the strength to control himself and to spare her life.

However, she was far from being out of danger. The moment her fingers had brushed the piece of leather, her destiny was sealed and she was the only one responsible for the fate that awaited her. He had warned her of the risks incurred if she dared touch his mask. Despite his warnings and threats, she had chosen to betray him, to disobey and defy the orders of her master. From now on, she was no longer his guest, but his prisoner. She wouldn't go unpunished and would have to endure the consequences of her reckless actions; she would pay for her crime. The Phantom would have his revenge!

She wanted to know how he was made and what he was capable of, in this case, she would not be disappointed. The Angel of Death would show her the many ways that exist to torture, break, destroy and humiliate the weak minds. He knew pain, and sometimes he shared it with others. Tonight, he would also betray her trust in his own treacherous and cruel manner, by tormenting her soul and body as she had done. Tonight, she would know no rest, just like he would.

Exhausted, desperate, destroyed and dizzy, Erik stopped struggling, thinking, resisting and welcomed the darkness that invaded him with their irresistible force, obscuring the suffering during the few hours during which he would dive in their peaceful abyss. His eyes closed, his thoughts faded away, his palpitations and gasps dwindled, the pain vanished and unconsciousness carried him in the silent oblivion.

**X X X X**

Full of remorse, guilt and regret, Christine took the mask lying on the floor in front of her and examined it in more detail, her fingers gently sketching the contours of smooth leather still warm, this small object that allowed this man to maintain a semblance of dignity, courage and serenity. She felt terribly ashamed and miserable to have betrayed the little trust that he had in humanity, to have broken his hopes and dreams simply by selfishness and stupidity. She wanted to know and she had her answer, as tragic and awful than it was. This senseless act would certainly be her ruin, since the Phantom could never forgive her this treachery. Her insatiable curiosity had compromised and wrecked the deep, and yet so fragile, confidence and friendship she had with her teacher. She had betrayed and humiliated the only man who had shown her an incorruptible respect, a sincere loyalty and that had faith in her without any hesitation or uncertainty. What madness had seized her to disavow and destroy a gift as miraculous!

Squeezing the mask against her mortified heart, she wept bitterly in the silent and gloomy dwelling where she perceived the distant laments of a lost soul echoing her own sobs. He had believed in her, in her kindness and compassion, but she had proved to be as cruel and selfish as the others… as hateful and insensitive as his own mother, who had hated him and had denied him any compassion despite her protective role.

She had thought he had inherited his mask after an accident in his youth or after a battle during the war that had left many men mutilated, but the reality was much more tragic and ruthless. He was born with this deformity; he had lived his entire life hidden behind this mask that had earned him the scorn of crowds and the disgust of his parents. He had known only the barbarism and darkness of humanity which he had learned to despise and ignore. Having also lived her share of misfortune and pettiness at the hands of others, she understood why he had chosen to flee and reject the earthly world. But her little misadventures could not be compared to the cruel ordeals and intolerable sufferings Erik had endured in his life because of his miserable appearance.

Despite all the pain and hate, he had however dared to believe in one of those humans who had spurned him. He had put all his faith and expectations in her; convinced that she was the chosen one he awaited and who would save him from his solitude, the Angel of Mercy who would reconcile him with humanity. But with a single thoughtless act, she had proven to be just another of those people without compassion, respect and scruples who considered him like a freak worthy of being exhibited in a cage. She had destroyed his last hope of redemption, of which she felt miserable and dismayed. Instead of being his chance of salvation, she had become his damnation.

Christine ignored how long she had been prostrate on the floor crying all the tears of her body. It could be minutes like hours, what mattered little. It was only when Ayesha rubbed against her knees she came back to reality. The cat must have fled when she saw the rage of the Phantom, seeking refuge in a dark corner to wait until the storm ends. Christine envied the animal that could escape from problems so easily and reappear as if nothing happened. Sitting in front of her, the cat tilted her head to the side and mewed sadly as if she sympathized with her grief and worried about the fate of her master.

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she let out a heavy sigh as she watched the mask she always held, then she stood up awkwardly and walked unsteadily to the door of her room, Ayesha trotting behind her. It was a little early to go to bed, but Christine felt exhausted, if not physically, she was morally. After laying the mask on her bedside table, she went to the bathroom and took a bath, which eased some of the accumulated tension in her muscles and slightly calmed her weary mind. When she felt a little more serene and relaxed, she stepped out of the perfumed water and dried herself with one of the thick and luxurious towels, before changing into her silky robe and sitting at her dressing table which revealed her the unattractive reflection of her dull and pale face.

While she brushed her abundant hair absent-mindedly, she perceived the hushed and indistinct accents of the organ in the adjoining chamber, Erik's one. Relieved to hear again some life rise in this tomb and to know that he hadn't abandoned her, she left her seat and returned to her room to enjoy the virtuosity of the music that had intensified. This piece was unknown to her, but its beauty, passion and ardor mesmerized her with an irresistible force, and unconsciously, she knew that these ardent and lascivious chords could only belong to his _Don Juan Triumphant_. The unearthly, languid, warm and caressing notes surrounded her with their power like the possessive arms of a lover, captivating and exhilarating her until she felt feverish, breathless and giddy. Tossed in a storm of tormented feelings, she staggered towards the center of the room when she was suddenly surprise by Erik's presence near the entrance.

He stood motionless in the doorway, peering at Christine like a predator eyeing its prey, no mask was hiding the beauty of his masculine features or concealing the magnetic intensity of his pale green eyes. His manly and mighty physique was majestically set off by a loose white shirt whose collar was widely ajar exhibiting his moist athletic torso covered with dark hairs. His long and large pallid feet emerged from simple black pants that highlighted the robust contours of his strong legs. He had the divine beauty of an angel and the fascinating virility of a devil. Offended by his rude intrusion into her room, she straightened up proudly and tightened her robe around her naked figure. What right did he have to go into her room without asking permission!

-"_Monsieur_! How dare you…" she said with outrage, but she could in no way finish her sentence.

In four strides, Erik was near her, his voracious mouth capturing hers, his rough hands grabbing her thin wrists to immobilize her, his hard body crashing against her frail figure. After a violent and bewildered jolt, she tried to fight, to slap him or at least to get free, but his strength was much greater and he kept her prisoner of his relentless grip, stifling her upset and frightened cries in the depths of his throat. Then suddenly, his harsh mouth became soft and caressing against her closed lips as he felt, tasted, traced and memorized the delicate curves. Christine stiffened when she felt his warm tongue sneak into the dark cavity, exploring the tasty depths with careful slowness. At the lascivious and possessive touch of his mouth that eagerly conquered hers, she let out a pitiful whimper, but she could not tell if it was of pleasure or of terror.

Despite her fear and anger, her body betrayed her and yielded to his ardent and intoxicating kisses, as she fearfully submitted to his desire that seemed to be strangely the echo of her own. Against all odds, she returned his embrace and soon their lips tasted and discovered each other in a sensual and wild dance accompanied by the muted sound of Christine's moans. Galvanized by the sudden capitulation of the girl, Erik released her wrists and passionately wrapped his strong arms around her graceful chest, spreading his hands on the small of her back and on her thin neck to press her firmly against the whole length of his hard body.

Seized by an uncontrollable and unexpected desire, Christine threw her head back and opened her lips a little more, offering him an unlimited access to the delights of her mouth that he eagerly devour with fervor and impatience. She dipped her fingers in his thick black hair that she gripped with rage to keep him against her before responding to his kiss by brushing her tongue along his. He gave a bestial and excited growl at this stroke and he tightened his arms around her, until she felt her round chest crushed against the hot hardness of his torso. The mists of passion blinded and wrapped Christine in their turbulent eddies, promising and whispering in her ear the many titillating and forbidden secrets that awaited her beyond the point of no return.

She forgot the anger, resentment and hate, and immersed herself body and soul in this ocean of sensations that washed over her with such violence that it was pointless to fight. For once in her life, she wanted to succumb to selfishness, to lose control, to satisfy her own needs without feeling any guilt or think about the consequences, to defy propriety and to flirt with temptation. More than ever, she wanted to exist for herself and not pretend in front of others. And this dangerous and tragic man seemed to be the only one able to revive the impetuous flame that once burned in the depths of her soul. Getting lost in the sultry kisses and carnal embrace of her dark angel, she stopped thinking and merely felt.

When he guessed Christine's last resistance collapse, Erik gave in to the dark urges that seethed in him for decades. Tonight, he would neither be denied nor despised. He would be considered as a man and not a monster. After years of solitude, he would finally know the joys of the flesh. His strong fingers gripped her hair and forced her head back, exposing her slender white throat that his lips attacked and savored with an insatiable frenzy. Deep groans and thrilling gasps sprang from this sublime column of immaculate flesh that was sprinkled with many red marks where his teeth had bitten and where his tongue had suckled.

-"You're mine, Christine! You belong to me," he growled near her ear before nibbling and suckling the little fleshy lobe.

His wide palm flattened against her round buttocks and slammed her hips against the throbbing length of his anatomy. Christine jerked when she perceived the clear evidence of his desire pushing against her belly. As he nipped and licked her white throat to memorize every muscle, every bone and every sinew, he slipped his knee between hers and slowly slid it up between her bare thighs until she straddles his leg. With a firm but tender hand, he pressed, guided and rubbed her hot and naked crotch against his hard thigh in a long provocative and rousing back and forth. This erotic touch excited and emboldened Christine who clutched his shoulders with a throaty growl striving to follow the sensual rhythm of the movements he imposed on her hips. A heady, euphoric, indomitable, incredible and totally unknown feeling grew in the pit of her stomach, and without knowing why, or how, she knew that Erik was the only one able to release and unleash this tumult of wild emotions.

Frustrated to be a lifeless puppet in his arms and to be a mere spectator of their embrace, she pulled away slightly to the great displeasure of Erik who frowned in discontent, tightening his arms around her waist to hold her against him. Pinching the corner of her lip between her teeth, she let her gaze wander over his strong, pale and athletic chest whose contours could be seen through his transparent shirt. Her curious hands kneaded his wide shoulders that twitched and bulged under her fingers, before they venture on his protruding, rounded biceps and then the sinuous wiry muscles of his forearm. Under her lover's captivated and intoxicated eyes, she pressed her palms on his firm belly and she felt the tremors of his skin and the shudder of his breathing under the thin barrier of fabric. Her fingers ran up his chest, feeling the curves, ridges, hollows and roundness that composed him, until she reached the gaping collar of his shirt where she stroked his sweaty and burning flesh of which she had only glimpsed tiny planes that had stirred her curiosity. Erik hissed hoarsely between his teeth clenched by pleasure while his eyelids closed and he focused on the feel of the young woman's touch. Encouraged by his reaction, she slipped her hands under the cloth and tangled her fingers in the fine dark hairs, scraped her fingernails on his soft warm skin, tickled his flat nipples and explored his body as far as she could go while he continued to growl, shiver, gasp and mumble inarticulate sounds. Losing patience and mad with desire, she grabbed the neckline of his shirt and yank the fabric, tearing two buttons that flew in the air, to expose more of his attractive and tempting flesh. With a satisfied smile, she leaned forward and kissed him sensually before sliding her mouth on his chin, along his strong jaw and his broad neck where she sensed the raging palpitations of his heart. And slowly, her lips brushed the feverish and moist flesh of his mighty chest, her tongue tasted his salty and peppery aroma, her nose breathed in his musky and heady scent, her teeth bit the hardness of his sturdy muscles. She wanted to know everything about him, learn to love and to cherish every tiny bit of his masculine body.

Suddenly, this lustful embrace was not enough and she wanted to feel, to know more of this unspoken secret. She wanted more… more kisses… more caresses… more pleasure… It was not just a whim, but a vital need. She needed that this man loved her as no one else could ever do.

-"Erik! Show me… Teach me," she begged her voice hoarse with desire after having brushed her velvet lips against his ear.

This licentious request whispered by Christine's innocent mouth roused Erik to the point that he thought he was losing the little reason he had left. As she finished to unbuttoned his shirt, he lifted her with an impatient and assured gesture to carry her to the bed where they laid against one another. He quickly took possession of her lips, savoring the exquisite nectar while she moaned with pleasure to feel his manly body pressed firmly against her delicate feminine contours, his long sturdy legs intertwining intimately with hers.

Her frail arms embraced his powerful chest, but she was horribly frustrated and disappointed when she felt under her fingers the impersonal roughness of his linen shirt impeding her caresses. She wanted to feel his hot, soft skin, knead his muscles as hard as steel and slide her fingers through the thick down of dark hair adorning his chest. Her hands grabbed his shirt with aggressiveness, and after a few awkward jerks, clumsy contortions and involuntary scratches, she managed with his help to snatch the odious garment she tossed beside the bed. At last, she could caress his supple, warm skin without any damnable hindrances. During exquisite minutes, she lingered on his hard, broad and muscular backside where each line, each relief and outline were sculpted with magnificence and perfection. Erik lost all control when he felt Christine's hands rub the tense flesh of his back, shoulders and arms without any barrier of fabric to oppose her touch. Mad with desire, he covered her face with frantic kisses until he reached her alabaster throat he sucked, bit and licked with an insatiable voracity as a man starving of human contact. Christine whimpered and gasped almost melodiously under his care, a wild and divine symphony Erik appreciated from the first note. Her sighs and moaning murmurs increased in a rapid crescendo, but it was not enough. He wanted to hear the entire repertoire that she could sing in the tumult of passion, from the smallest whisper to the most deafening scream.

With a sudden movement, he lifted himself on one elbow, his fiery and shining eyes almost as black as ebony, and slowly he skimmed his hand on her fragile neck where beat her euphoric pulse. When he moved in the bed, she looked with longing at his sweaty chest where was scattered the fur of black hairs that trailed down his stomach in a narrow band that disappeared into the confines of his pants. With a deft twist of the arm, she pressed her palm on that sublime plain of untouched flesh, where she played with the fine hairs and teased the small nipples, eliciting a throaty growl from her lover. However, she was quickly distracted from her task when Erik slipped his fingers on her throat until he reached the curves of her breasts still concealed under her dressing gown. He squeezed and rubbed the soft, warm flesh that hardened under his touch; his thumb tickled the sensitive tip which stood erected against the fabric as if trying to pierce it.

Christine's eyelids fluttered under the deluge of exhilarating sensations rushing in her body that trembled violently and despite her dizziness, her eyes fixed on this inquisitive hand eager to learn this new territory. After intense seconds, he pursued his path on her waist in order to capture the belt of her wrapper that he tugged with a swift and nimble movement without she uttered any objection. Slipping his hand under the lapel of the dress, he sensually stroked the warm and silky skin of her stomach and pushed little-by-little the fabric as he ventured more and more further to her side, then her hip and finally her thigh. His languid fingers pressed against her skin parted the folds of the garment that was futilely attempting to contain his progress, and without haste, he discovered the hidden beauty of her femininity. Her slender legs wonderfully sculpted by hours of dancing, her wide hips where a thin dark triangle was nested and her lovely rosy breasts were revealed to Erik whose face darkened with desire and eagerness. She was lying fully and candidly naked under the fascinated gaze of her Angel, but she felt no shame or discomfort as it should be, she felt rather beautiful, desirable and glorious.

His greedy eyes scrutinized her figure from the delicate tips of her toes to the opulent curls of her radiant hair in a slow and careful examination before his long musician fingers cover her bare chest that he kneaded and tickled skillfully, inciting harmonious moans from Christine. Unable to resist any longer, she closed her eyelids and let herself be seduced and cherished by the insatiable curiosity and the unmatched virtuosity of her lover. He already seemed to know every tiny portion of her anatomy, knowing staunchly which sensitive areas he must kiss or which languid caresses he must provide to offer her the most sublime pleasure.

His hot breath suddenly grazed her breasts and she opened her eyes just in time to see his lips close on the mount of flesh, engulfing it with a voracious roar. His wet and sacrilegious tongue annoyed with frenzy her nipple that awoke, stood up and hardened shamelessly as for begging more caresses. After suffocating minutes, he moved his mouth to her other breast he tasted and swallowed almost entirely, his tongue suckling the small protruding bud and his teeth scraping the creamy flesh while his hand teased and caressed her second neglected nipple.

Christine sank body and soul in the volcanic embrace her dark Angel of Music, forgetting to think, to listen, to see and even to breathe. She was only mindful of the lascivious and exhilarating sensations that tormented her quivering body, of her heart beating with unparalleled violence between her ribs and of her corrosive blood rushing wildly in her beating veins. Deep in her loins, an infernal heat grew and spread its devouring flames through each of her feverish cells while he possessed and ravaged her breasts with his burning lips and his magical fingers.

-"Oh, my God… Erik," she whispered lasciviously.

Her free hand tangled in his thick black hair to encourage him and hold him against her as she arched her back and raised her chest, urging him to possess and consume her without restrictions. The Heaven could not be more delightful, but she was terribly mistaken, what he was about to prove her quickly. With a savage growl, he abandoned her swollen breasts covered with saliva and his mouth ran on the white satin skin of her trembling belly, his nose and tongue tickling the delicate hollow of her navel.

Finally, his lips brushed the nest of brown curls concealed between her legs that she hastened to squeeze with a spasm to preserve her most intimate spots. Erik lifted his roguish eyes darkened with desire on Christine before giving her a mischievous and licentious smirk. He wasn't bothered or discouraged by her bashful reactions, and on the contrary, he was delighted by them. Her vain struggle to keep some semblance of control and virtue, although it was useless and foolish to resist the calls and needs of her body, made her punition even more bitter and cruel, but his triumph was all the more tasty and glorious.

Christine straightened up on her elbows to watch him with her huge eyes incredulous and shocked while he rained kisses along her thigh to her knee that he bit lightly. His large hand stroked the smooth skin of her other leg he slightly move aside and she closed her eyes tight when she guessed her body open and reveal before him. Softly, gently, his incandescent and persistent mouth slipped on her inner thigh, kissing, nibbling, tasting the quivering and velvety flesh he was the first to discover, and at this moment, he swore that he would be the only man to ever love and know her feminine charms. Christine's muscles twitched and tensed as he approached her sensitive center, her fingers fiercely clutched the sheets and her breathing became chaotic and choked. When his heavy breath swept her dark curls and his wet mouth finally touched her most intimate contours, she collapsed on the bed with a strangled yelp and she began to shake uncontrollably as if she had been struck by lightning. During intense and fleeting seconds, his lips and the tip of his tongue traced and brushed her secret recesses whose amber scent made his head spin. He barely perceived the honeyed and spicy flavor of her pleasure invading his taste buds, but before he could explore and appreciate her more thoroughly and intensely, she grabbed his hair in her tight fists and forced his head away from her throbbing core.

Reluctant to leave this thick, warm and fragrant nest, he nonetheless obeyed her and raised his head to gaze at the expression of her delicate features tensed by the delights and the agony of bliss. Her eyebrows were furrowed above her tightly closed eyes and her scarlet cheeks framed her mouth partly open on her plaintive and panting breathing. In one swift movement, he stretched out against her side, her swollen and full breasts brushing his hard chest, and he hastened to seize her glistening lips where he noticed the marks of her teeth that had bitten the plump flesh.

Amidst the mists of passion, she suddenly realized that his crotch was pressed insistently against her hip, his pants hiding with great difficulty the imposing rigidity and intense heat they contained. With fear and curiosity, she trailed her timid hand on his stomach to cover the protruding bulge, outlining and exploring the immense length that seemed to have no beginning or end. Erik winced and twitched, leaving her lips to release an almost bestial growl before his head lazily fell down and he buried his face against her neck he kissed and sucked languidly. His hand rose to cover Christine's one and slowly, he accompanied her voluptuous and bold caress. Anxious to give him the same pleasure he was granting her, she moved her palm with calm and sensuality, finding one after the other the sensitive parts of his anatomy, learning to touch and love him as he had done with her own body. She didn't wish for anything that he felt neglected or ignored.

He emitted a loud groan against her ear while he rocked his hips under her touch, following her frantic pace. Christine's eyes widened in disbelief when she felt between her fingers his manhood warming up, thickening, stretching, swelling and throbbing more and more as if to spring out from prison of fabric where he was confined. His skin grew warmer as if a blaze was burning in his muscles, and was scattered with fine droplets of sweat, exhaling a musky, heady perfume, intoxicating her. Erik gasped, moaned, grunted against her neck in an uninterrupted and lascivious symphony she wanted to hear and appreciate until the end of the night. But after many exhilarating minutes, Erik froze on a strangled gasp and he crushed Christine's hand against his crotch while his massive body was swamped with powerful shudders and convulsions. A sudden spasm, more violent than all the others, paralyzed him from head to toe, and for a few seconds, he remained tense and motionless at her side, his breath strangled in his throat on a choked gasp. Then, with a liberating groan, he collapsed against Christine's side before pulling her hand away from his quivering belly to rest lazily on her milky breasts. His panting breath scorched her throat and his heart was beating with such violence and speed she felt it echoing in her own chest.

Straightening up with difficulty on his elbow, Erik peered at the young girl with a dreamy and lost gaze, and once more sealed their lips in a passionate and sultry kiss, his tongue savagely accessing the honeyed depths of her mouth. Captivated by the torrid tango in which their mouths were entwined, Christine didn't immediately noticed that his hand was roaming on her shivering body, the tips of his callous fingers touching her breasts, her belly, her hips, her thighs to reach the thick brown curls nestled between her legs. She jerked at this illicit, strange, obscene and immoral contact, yet she didn't impede his act and merely shuddered and trembled under his possessive embrace.

Abruptly, he pulled away from her and, capturing her dark gaze in the hypnotic clarity of his, he played with the fine silky curls, entangling his fingers in the tiny tufts, and then he insinuated his hand between her thighs where it slipped with a maddening and unbearable slowness against her warm femininity that concealed a wetness and a sensitivity she had never before experienced. He stroked, explored and detailed slowly this narrow and virgin valley with his meticulous and skillful fingers until he had memorized every contour, every texture and every singularity peculiar to her body.

Christine stifled a whiny cry, biting her lip when his slender fingers teased a precise and concise point, like a rosebud, nestled in the silky folds. Denying all modesty and decency, her legs spread wider, offering to her lover a better access to this bud bursting with pleasure she had never known existed. In a bold and almost aggressive gesture, she grabbed Erik's wrist to guide his caress, but he gripped her hand, and intertwining their fingers, they brushed and rubbed together her hot intimacy in a perfect and lascivious choreography. More than once her own fingers caressed her own wet flesh, but she paid no attention. She was no longer able to think or to be offended for ages, since the moment she had succumbed to him and he had become the master and the guide of her desire. Thoughts were vain and obsolete, only sensations and pleasure existed in this abyss of fire and darkness in which she sank obediently, carried on the wings of her dark angel.

His pupils shining of desire and fascination, Erik admired carefully Christine's face contort and frown under the agony of ecstasy while her body writhed and twitched to the rhythm of their feverish strokes. His eyes wandered on the feminine curves openly unfolded before him to settle on her belly where their hands danced and swayed together in a perfect and glorious harmony, multiplying and exhilarating her pleasure with each touch. The young soprano would have never imagined that her mind and her soul could bear as much carnal torment and sensory intensity, or even that there might exist such a powerful and alienating bliss.

Prisoner of Erik's predacious eyes, she felt her body heat up and tighten like the strings of a bow ready to break. In the pit of her stomach was growing and brewing an immeasurable pressure of which she ignored the origin or the purpose, but instinctively she knew that only Erik detained the key of its release. Without realizing it, her hips had lifted from the mattress and undulated in rapid erratic movements against their curious and teasing fingers.

After exhausting and exquisite seconds, a hysterical and tortured scream burst out from the hollow of her throat and the tight knot huddled in the depths of her core exploded into a thousand blazing fragments. A torrent of lava and of thunder rushed in each of her overexcited cells in an apotheosis of glowing flames, of roaring sounds and of blinding colors. While her body twitched and convulsed in violent, pleasurable and salutary spasms, she felt drained of all energy and lucidity, unable to stay connected with reality any longer. Exhaling a long, spent and ecstatic sigh, her eyelids closed of their own volition and her head fell limply to the side to rest against the strong shoulder of her lover. She had never felt so alive, happy, in symbiosis and in peace with herself and the world. Close to her ear, she perceived the calming purr of Erik's breathing and his soothing heat enveloped her in a reassuring and cozy cloud she never wanted to leave. His long artist fingers slid through her tangled hair and his soft warm lips grazed her throbbing temple.

-"_Mon Ange adoré_… I love you," he murmured, his breath barely audible.

A delighted smile stretching her lips, she buried her nose against the throat of her companion and savored the last vestiges of pleasure pulsing in her core. Her body shuddered under the insatiable persistence of Erik caresses whose languid fingers brushed and sketched delicious arabesques on her sweaty, sensitive skin. She could have stayed forever in his arms and never get tired or be satiated of his embrace.

When Christine finally opened her eyes after exquisite minutes, she didn't discover the loving face of Erik leaned over her and the protective strength of his arms around her. She laid alone in her bed, resting on her side among the rumpled sheets, her scruffy robe showing glimpse of her nakedness. She was tightly holding her pillow she had wedged between her thighs where one of her hands had also slipped against her moist femininity, her hot and sensitive flesh throbbing beneath her fingers. Had she really done that? Horrified, ashamed, shocked, mortified, she jumped out of bed with a start and rushed to the bathroom where she hastily plunged into the still full bath, unmindful that the water was cold as ice.

By all that was holy! What had she done! What had urged her to act like this? What madness had possessed her! How could she have behaved in such a wanton way? What was this terrible and irresistible power he held over her senses? How this man could enslave her to the least of his desires by the simple resonance of his music or his voice? All these depraved images and these licentious sensations were they part of the dark depths of her being or had he been the one to suggest them to her mind?

And above all, was it really a dream? What if none of this had been a fantasy suggested to her senses by his extraordinary gifts? Maybe he had really come to her, seducing her with his voice and his music to abuse her? His kisses and caresses had seemed so real and tangible that doubt seized her! What he had done to her? Had he dare to take her defending body while she was dazed and subdued by his voice?

However, she wasn't sure that everything had been caused by his music. As the memory came back, she was shocked at the thought of her so fast and absolute submission without she opposes any struggle or resistance. A dark and hidden part of her mind longed to give up, to surrender to her carnal impulses that lay dormant in her and that Erik was the only one able to unleash. He possessed her, body and soul, and she realized with horror that she hadn't the strength, or the desire to resist him. What would happen to her if she lost all control and lucidity and let herself be consumed by the untamed passion of her Angel of Music?


End file.
